Mannequins and Marionettes
by Aalon
Summary: This is the 5th story in the Different Road Taken AU. It takes place roughly six weeks after the conclusion of A Fly in the Garden. A murder takes Richard Castle and Kate Beckett to the seedy side of San Francisco.
1. Chapter 1

**Mannequins and Marionettes: Chapter 1**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

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 **A/N:** This is the fifth story in the Different Road Taken arc, and it starts about a month and a half after the end of A Fly in the Garden. Obviously, if you haven't read the first four stories, please start there – otherwise you won't recognize many of the characters and the references. I hope everyone had a wonderful holiday season and New Year. And here is to hoping we hear new stories from a couple of my favorite writers (Ahem….Geek Mom and Perspex13).

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 _ **Saturday, 10:43 a.m., March 31, 2012, at the Castles Complex in Sausalito, California**_

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The morning mist hovers just over the tree line as droplets of dew blanket the leaves on the trees and the grass below. It is still rather cool on this spring morning in Sausalito, and Richard Castle stands underneath the rock and wooden monument to Penny Zimmerman with his hands in his coat pocket. It is his weekly visit – usually every Saturday morning – to this area on the western front of the property. He gazes upward, reading the inscription on the wooden plank that juts upward from the rock structure.

 _For Penny – whose courage remains the foundation of these Castles._

"Time to go, babe," Kate Beckett whispers to the tall man next to her. While his hands are in his coat pocket, her left arm is entwined with his as they stand together. He nods his head in agreement, breaking the moment of reverence that always accompanies his visits to this place.

"I know," he replies softly, pulling his hands out of his pockets, and interlocking the fingers of his right hand with those of her left. They turn and walk slowly, silently, their footsteps barely making a sound in the wet grass below their feet. A minute later they are on the pathway again, leading back to the complex.

"What time is it, anyway?" he finally asks aloud as he glances at his watch. Seeing the time, he realizes she is right. They have the Mayor of San Francisco coming in at eleven, which is now less than fifteen minutes away. It is an unexpected meeting, one that they were notified about roughly forty-five minutes ago. Unusual for its timing, here on a weekend, for certain.

"I wonder what she wants," he muses to the woman walking alongside him.

"She didn't say," Kate tells him, "at least not according to Mike. He took the call this morning."

"Sandra does like to play things close to the vest," Castle replies. "I don't like it."

"Neither do I," she agrees. "There is never good news this early in the morning," she continues. Over a decade of experience with weekend body drops in New York City screams at her that nothing good is coming their way this morning. Right now, however, New York City seems like a lifetime ago. Both the ex-writer and the ex-cop are grateful for that little fact right now.

Mayor Sandra Clooney's office has called earlier this morning, 'requesting' a meeting directly with Richard Castle. Up to this point, Clooney has not hesitated to reach out directly to Castle – to have a person-to-person conversation on the phone. That she instructed her office to reach out to the main number at the Castles instead of to the ex-author himself is telling.

They pick up their pace back to the front of the complex where the administrative building is housed, knowing that Clooney is – if nothing else – punctual to perfection. Sure enough, as they clear the woods and can see the driveway leading to the administration building some seventy-five yards ahead, Castle can make out the black, unmarked sedan that the mayor likes to use.

"She's early," he remarks.

"No surprise," Kate acknowledges. "Mike will keep her company until we get there."

"Why, do you have a detour in mind?" he smiles, offering her a slight wink.

"Hey, that ship sailed this morning when you turned down my offer," she deadpans.

"That is so far from the truth, my lying ex-detective and you know it," he argues with a knowing smirk. "Let's see . . . you waited until we were, one, out of the shower . . . two, dried off . . . three, dressed and headed downstairs before making any such offer."

"I've seen you get out of clothes faster than a speeding bullet before," she chuckles, offering him a bump of the hips as they approach the back entrance to the administration building. Their friendly banter has taken up the last half-football field of the trek back from the Z, and he opens the door for her, allowing her entrance.

"No comment," he smiles as he makes a production of bowing slightly, opening an expressive and waving arm to allow her pass by.

"Why thank you, Mr. Castle," she smiles as she enters. He follows directly behind her, as they head for his office. Arriving there, they walk through the already-open door, where Mike Monroe and Mayor Sandra Clooney sit waiting. Both rise as Castle and Beckett enter the office.

"Mr. Castle," Mayor Clooney offers, a friendly smile on her face.

" _Okay, maybe this is just a friendly casual call . . . Nah, who am I kidding?"_ he thinks to himself as he shakes Monroe's hand and turns to the mayor.

"Sandra," he smiles in return, always on a first-name basis – at least from his end – with the mayor, much as he was with his friend and mayor back on the east coast.

"Hello Ms. Mayor," Kate greets her, with an outstretched hand as well.

"Ms. Beckett," the mayor nods as she shakes Kate's hand. "It is good to see you both so early this morning."

"Well, is it a good morning or not?" Castle asks, pulling up two chairs. He pulls the first toward Kate, who smiles and sits. He then lowers his large frame into the second chair, turning toward the mayor and his security chief.

"I'm afraid not," the mayor begins. "I can tell by the look on both of your faces . . . well, all three of your faces that you didn't expect this to be a social call."

"At eleven in the morning, from across the bay on a Saturday morning? Yeah, we figured you just had nothing better to do . . ." Castle smiles, and the foursome share a chuckle. They all know by now that they have to embrace these light moments in life when they are presented.

"What's up, Ms. Mayor?" Kate asks, glancing at Monroe, who shakes his head from side to side.

"I know nothing, Kate," he frowns. "Our friend here did not share anything with me while waiting for you and Rick."

"I felt it is something you needed to hear first-hand," Mayor Clooney begins. "And by first-hand, I mean to say, in person, where I knew there would be no listening ears."

"You feel there are extra ears listening in bac,k at City Hall?" Castle asks.

"Always," the mayor responds, and notices the smirk and glance shared between Castle and Kate, but pushes it out of her mind as she continues.

"So, no pun intended, but we are all-ears here," Castle tells her.

She stands, brushing imaginary lint from the front of her black pants, then brushing downward. It's a nervous habit, Castle recognizes, having watched this mayor in action many times. The fact that she stands tells him to prepare himself. He frowns, knowing that she would not be here if the news she has did not pertain to him. Since the freeing of almost fifty women from a sex-slave ring here in the Bay Area, things have been blessedly quiet. Of course, hoping the silence would last was far too much to ask.

"This morning, one of our precincts received a call from Madame Tussauds down on the wharf," Sandra Clooney begins. "The morning crew arrived early to open up and get things ready for today's tourist visitors, but during their walk-through, they noticed a . . . well, they noticed a new _'piece'_ on display" she tells them, placing air quotes around the word 'piece'.

"A new _piece_?" Kate asks, the hairs on the back of her neck already standing at attention. Given that Madame Tussauds is a wax museum, with wax replicates of famous persons, there is nothing good about the idea that a new, unexpected piece being there.

"Leave it to our city," the mayor exhales under her breath. "Always some crazy . . ."

She doesn't finish the sentence. Instead, she continues her explanation to the trio in front of her.

"Evidently, there was a murder overnight," she tells them. "Not your normal run-of-the-mill type. The man was killed, and then filled with embalming fluid to preserve the body. The body was then dressed, and placed in the music area of the exhibit . . . with a guitar moved from the Jimi Hendrix exhibit, no less. It seems our murderer has a sense of humor to go with the macabre."

"You can't be serious," Mike Monroe remarks, an incredulous look on his face. Richard Castle, however, has the thumb and forefinger of his left hand rubbing the bridge of his nose. A few years with Kate Beckett and the NYPD has prepared him for even the most imaginative of crimes. No, right now he is wondering why such a crime warrants his attention, in the mind of the mayor.

"I don't mean to be crass, Sandra," Castle begins, "but I am assuming there is a reason you have brought this to us? I mean, this sounds like the kind of crime the San Francisco PD can handle."

"You are absolutely right, Rick," the mayor replies, now speaking more informally. "The reason I am bringing this to your attention is because of the victim . . . and the implications of such that will need to be investigated."

"What, you don't imagine anyone here on these premises is a mad doctor slash murderer, do you?" Mike Monroe chuckles. His laugh is short-lived as he sees the reply painted on the mayor's face.

"His name was Robbie Johnson," Clooney tells the team. "I can tell that the name doesn't ring a bell, and I'm not surprised. Let me give you a different name. Does the name –"

"Karen Marks," Richard Castle sadly mumbles aloud.

"Ah, so I have underestimated you once again," Clooney tells Castle, a mask of admiration briefly crossing her face before the politician composes herself again.

"Yes, Karen Marks," she continues. "Mr. Johnson was the boyfriend of Ms. Marks, who was admitted to this facility –"

"Back in December," Mike Monroe finishes for her, now remembering the identify of the victim by name as well. Marks had come to the facility barely three months after delivering her first child. Three months after her delivery, she had suffered a beating at the hands of Johnson.

"Can't say I'm sad to hear of the dude's demise," Monroe tells the group. It draws a raised-eyebrow from the mayor, but neither Castle nor Kate react. Both are well-used to Mike Monroe's views of any man who would do physical harm to a woman. For a brief instant, Castle hopes that the mayor is not there because their friend is a suspect. Kate Beckett, however, her cop instincts still well in-place, understands perfectly why the mayor is here.

"You think Karen had something to do with this?" she asks the mayor.

"We have to consider that," Clooney replies with a nod of the head. "You of all people should understand that. Had this been a death by robbery, a car accident, a fall from a ladder . . . trust me, I would not be here. But this type of death . . . a murder, and then an embalming . . ."

"And a public display," Monroe adds, whistling.

"Yes, all of this adds up to a killing of a personal nature," Clooney continues, rubbing her hands nervously. They all know what she is implying, what her visit here now means. And Richard Castle is having none of it.

"Now hold on here a minute, Sandra," he tells her, and Kate gently touches his arm, trying to rein him in. She can see the anger, she disappointment . . . the literal insult that Castle considers the direction this meeting is taking.

"First of all, no one here at this facility is a killer," he begins, marking off items on his fingers. "They are victims. Don't forget that."

"I know that –" the mayor begins, but Castle cuts her off.

"Second, we just – in the past week or so – got all of our guests here feeling comfortable again after the military-style assault that we endured six, eight weeks ago," he continues. "There is no way I am letting squad cars come in here and arrest or question anyone here based upon whatever hunch your police department might have."

"That isn't your call, Mr. Castle," Clooney replies, now reverting back to a more formal tone. "A crime has been committed in my city. A brutal crime that the media is going to have a field day with."

He knows this to be true. He knows that the media – newspapers, online sources, television networks, social media – this is the kind of story that they live for. And it's the kind of story that usually has long legs to stay relevant indefinitely.

"My police department has to follow all leads, follow all possibilities," Clooney is saying, pulling him back into the conversation. "And a man who beats his girlfriend, sending her to a wonderful establishment such as this, and then he ends up brutally murdered himself, and then put on public display . . . surely you must recognize that one of the first people we have to question are those with a motive. And right now, because we know this was a premediated murder, because of the personal nature of this, the person with the strongest motive is Karen Marks."

He doesn't want to admit she is right, but even on a surface level, he knows she is. He also knows that the school teacher who is raising a now six-month old daughter doesn't have this type of murder in her. Kate seems to be reading his mind.

"She doesn't have this in her, Rick," Kate admits, "but she may know someone who does. As a cop, or ex-cop, I have to see the logic in them at least wanting to speak with Karen."

"I know, Kate," he tells her. "Dammit, I know. But she doesn't deserve this. She doesn't need this. And none of the women here need to see her on display as a suspect. Everyone here is a victim, dammit," he repeats.

"I know this, Mr. Castle," the mayor reminds him. "That is why I am here, and not the SFPD. That is why I am here, giving you a heads up so we can agree on how to proceed with this."

"I know, I have just figured that out," Castle nods. "And thank you. And I apologize. You're right. But I am right, too. I can't let this spook Karen, or any of our other guests here."

"We won't," the mayor promises. "The best approach, I believe, would be to conduct this first conversation-"

"Conversation?" Mike asks.

"Okay," the mayor agrees, "this first questioning. The best approach would be to have this first question and answer session off the premises here. I've already expressed to the captain that I do not support bringing Ms. Marks into their precinct. Too many eyes there. I agree that this first meeting – and it may end up being the only meeting – but this first meeting needs to be somewhere away from the department, away from the reporters who enjoy hanging out at the department."

"Tell your captain that I appreciate it," Castle replies. "So how do we go about this, Mike?" he asks his security chief.

"Well," Mike begins, his right hand stroking his chin as he thinks. "Well, to be honest, the best approach might actually be to do it here, Rick," he tells his boss, ignoring the incredulous stare being given to him with these words.

"Hear me out," Monroe continues. "The police don't have to come here with lights flashing and sirens blazing. They can come in an unmarked car – just like our mayor did. And send them as plainclothes officers," he continues, now his attention focused on the mayor.

"Simple car, simple clothes, no one here will be the wiser," he finishes.

"Especially any of the women living here," Kate adds, warming up to the idea. It's how she would do it also. "Send in a detective team, not the blues."

Kate then turns to Castle, to address him directly.

"The next step," she continues, "is how we break this to Karen. As an ex-cop, I can tell you that under no circumstances do the police want anyone to share this information with Karen before they get a chance to question her."

"Why-" Castle begins, but quickly catches himself. "Forgive me," he chuckles. "I'm out of practice with shadowing police officers."

"The police will want to see Karen's reaction to the news first-hand," Kate remarks, knowing that her lover has already just figured this out for himself. He simply nods his head slightly, in agreement.

"That means we have to make sure that Karen is here when your officers get here," Monroe adds. "She is already back teaching, as you know."

"We have on-site day-care service for the children," Castle reminds Clooney, seeing the question etched on her face. "While she is at school . . . while any of the women are at their jobs, we take care of their kids."

"How long do the women stay here, again?" Clooney asks.

"No more than a year, but hopefully not that long," Castle replies. "Karen actually has scheduled herself to check out next month. About a week from now, in fact, if memory serves."

"So, all the more reason to have this conversation with her quickly," Clooney remind them.

"I'm guessing today," Kate remarks.

"That would be preferable," Clooney agrees. "I've told our captain that I would arrange for this as quickly as possible. I really do not like pushing my weight around in these types of matters."

"Thank you, I understand," Castle remarks. "Is Karen here today, Mike?"

"Yeah, most of the ladies are here today," Monroe replies. "Remember, we have the magic show coming in this afternoon for the kids. Of course, little Jana isn't interested in magicians, but a lot of the other kids – and their mothers – are."

"Jana?" Clooney asks.

"Jana Marks," Kate replies. "Karen's daughter. She is six months old."

"Okay," Clooney nods. "I think I can arrange for one of the detectives to come out this afternoon, either before or after the magic show."

"That works," Castle thinks aloud. "It also gives us time to figure out what to say to Karen. To explain why we didn't give her a heads-up about the murder, or the fact that she's going to be questioned."

"The truth, Rick," Kate tells him. "We tell her the truth. It's standard procedure. We don't deviate from that – for anyone."

"But we also let Karen know that we are fully behind her," Monroe adds.

"Should I get legal representation for her?" Castle asks.

"Let's have Josh here, ready," Kate suggests. Josh Campbell is the campus attorney that has been retained and put in place for whatever reason would arise for the women here. Although no one could have seen a case quite like this one coming.

"Okay," Castle agrees. "If you can have them here around 2:30, when the show ends this afternoon, we can pull Karen aside and let them speak with her. And again, Sandra, thank you for the heads up. I know you didn't have to do this."

"Yes, I did," the mayor argues. "The last thing I want to do is anything that harms this establishment, or anyone here. I hope you believe me on this."

"We do," Castle replies for the trio. "We do."

The meeting now over, the foursome makes their way toward the door. Only now does Castle notice that there is no driver, no one with the mayor. She made the trip on her own, driving herself. Making sure that no one knew why she was here.

"Thank you, Sandra," he tells her again as he watches her walk down the hallway leading to the foyer, accompanied by Mike. He turns to Kate, who is behind him, giving her a glance.

"Wonderful," he mutters. "Just wonderful."

"It will work out, Rick," she tells him, but can tell he isn't buying it. And he can tell she isn't buying her own words either. They have been through too much together, see too many strange things to dismiss this as something that will easily go away.

"I suspect we are just now beginning this particular story," he tells her, taking her hand and following the mayor and his security chief."

"You're probably right," she tells him. "You're probably right."

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 **A/N:** And so begins another story on the California coast with our favorite couple. This one is kind of straight-forward and . . . hahahahaha . . . who am I kidding . . . this is far from straight-forward. My mind just doesn't flow in straight lines. Happy New Year to everyone. I hope you enjoy this journey.


	2. Chapter 2

**Mannequins and Marionettes: Chapter 2**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

.

 **A/N:** A reminder, once again – if you have not read A Different Road Taken, and the previous other three stories in this AU, please do so now. I placed this disclaimer in the main title headings, but it looks like a few readers initially missed that. My apologies.

So, on to the story. It's good to have you with me on this.

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 _ **Saturday, 3:15 p.m., March 31, 2012, at the Castles Complex in Sausalito, California**_

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Richard Castle and Kate Beckett both quickly stand as the door to the conference room opens. The first person through the door is Josh Campbell, the attorney on-premises for the complex. He quickly gives a wavering thumbs-up to the duo before pulling out his cell phone and placing a call as he walks toward the hallway, mouthing the words "Give me a few minutes," as he walks.

Next out is Karen Marks, and her tear-stained face is not much of a surprise. Both Castle and Kate knew that this would be a difficult meeting for Marks; either because her boyfriend has been brutally murdered, or because she is potentially a suspect – or at the least – a person of interest. Or hell, maybe it is all of the above. Either way, she is wearing her emotions openly. Both Castle and Kate rush toward her as she exits the conference room.

"Believe me, Karen, if there were another way to have broken this news to you, we would have done so," Castle begins, an honest and sympathetic expression painting his features. She nods in acceptance, and for now, that is enough.

"Just understand that we have your back, Karen," Kate tells her, continuing the conversation. "Whatever happens, we are in this together." Both she and Castle are wondering what the mixed, wavering thumbs-up from the campus attorney could mean.

"Who would do such a thing?" Karen replies softly, and that tells both the ex-writer and the ex-cop where this woman's head is. Truthfully, after being so harshly battered by this man, Castle has been wondering just how torn up Karen would be about news of his death.

"Well, that is what the police hope to find out," Kate replies. At that moment, Captain Jeremy Saunders from the SFPD steps out. Kate instinctively leaves Marks with Castle and approaches the captain.

"So, what's the story?" she asks.

"Well, I'd like to believe Ms. Marks, trust me," Captain Saunders begins, "but I have to tell you, the motive is strong. You've seen the pictures. You and Mr. Castle know – first-hand – how badly damaged she was. Whoever did this, this was a crime of passion. And she's my top suspect right now."

"When was the murder, Captain?" Kate asks, not surprised by this news. Her first hope, however, is one of alibi. If she can prove that Karen Marks was on-campus at the time the murder was committed, that would put Karen in the clear. And because the woman has a baby and spends as much of her time on the campus grounds with her child, her chances are good.

Unless, of course, the murder occurred during the day while Karen was – theoretically – teaching at school.

"Far too difficult to determine," Saunders replies. "The body was embalmed. And as you know, embalming interferes with most of our toxicology tests. But given the fact that the victim was last seen two nights ago, we can set the time of murder pretty much any time in the past few days, I would say."

"Not very precise," Kate agrees.

"Best we might be able to do right now," Saunders adds. "I've got an unhappy coroner who wants to know why we are giving her an embalmed body. Regardless, time of death doesn't help exonerate your friend."

Kate nods in understanding. At least Saunders is being honest and transparent. That's all they can ask for right now.

"Well, perhaps I will do a little investigating on my own," Kate muses aloud. "I don't see Karen doing this."

"That's right, I understand you have your PI license now," Saunders adds. "Your reputation from back east proceeds you, Detective."

"That's ex-detective now," Kate smiles.

"Once a detective, always a detective," Richard Castle remarks, muscling his way into the conversation. Kate glances at the taller man who has just come over and joined the conversation.

"Where is Karen?" she asks.

"Samantha just took her to her office," Castle responds, indicating that Dr. Samantha Peraza has Karen with her.

"Good," Kate replies. "I can't tell you how glad I am she is here, Rick."

"This is a good place, a good thing you are doing here, Mr. Castle," Captain Saunders adds. "I really do hope that Ms. Marks had nothing to do with this. The last thing you need is bad publicity. Especially after the fiasco back in February."

"A fiasco that wasn't our fault, by the way," Castle adds testily.

"Do you think that mattered to the media?" Saunders asks with a knowing glance. "All they saw was great news that would take up multiple cycles – and the damage to your image out here be damned."

"True," is all Castle can think of saying, and truth be told, he is now considering the Captain's words. Up to now, his primary concern has been for Karen Marks. Sure, he has had a couple of passing thoughts as to what kind of impact this new round of negative publicity could have on his passion project here, but he has successfully put those thoughts aside and focused on Marks.

Until now, that is. Until he hears those fears voiced by someone else. Especially when that someone else is a cop.

"So, how did the interview slash questioning slash interrogation go?" Castle asks. "And of the three, which was it?"

"Kind of up in the air right now, Rick," Kate answers, glancing back at the captain. "No firm time of death, and as you and I feared, the motive is strong."

"But is there any evidence?" Castle asks.

"At this time, no," Saunders admits. "But lack of evidence does not mean she isn't a suspect, or a person of interest."

"Which is she to you, Captain?" Kate asks.

Saunders pauses, glancing between the couple before answering. He has been up front so far, and has decided that with this ex-detective and one who has gone out of his way to help the community – he is going to stay that way.

"I know it isn't what you want to her, but I consider her a suspect – at least for now," he adds quickly. "Trust me, I don't want to make any trouble for any of you out here. I just need something to turn up that will logically take the focus away from Ms. Marks."

Both Castle and Kate nod their heads simultaneously, saying the same words at the same time.

"Agree," they both say, giving Saunders his first look at the almost comical telepathic link the couple shares.

"All the more reason for me to get involved in this, Castle," Kate remarks, and her transition from concerned friend and lover to professional private investigator isn't lost on either man standing with her. Without another word, Kate Beckett walks away from Castle and Saunders, leaving the room.

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 _ **Saturday Evening, 7:34 p.m., March 31, 2012, Outside a massage parlor in Chinatown in San Francisco**_

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"Okay, babe – cool factor aside, because this is seriously cool – are you sure this is the right place?" Castle asks, his fingers mingling with Kate's as they stand outside the small, run-down looking establishment.

"Well, a literal massage parlor wasn't what I was expecting," Kate admits as they glance at the building. She turns her head to look back down the street, towards Grant street which houses the main tourist trap stores and restaurants in Chinatown. They have parked just off Grant on Jackson Street where the massage parlor is located.

"Yeah, well I'm more interested in the fortune teller advertised," he smiles with a waggle of eyebrows.

"Anyway, this is the place, according to Mr. Johnson's co-workers, where he was headed two nights ago," Kate reminds him, ignoring the boyish retreat occurring next to her.

"And no one has seen him since?" Castle asks, waiting for confirmation. "I know we have been through this earlier. I just have a bad feeling about this."

"So do I," she admits. "But a lead is a lead," she continues as she leads him up the stairs into the two-story building.

Earlier this afternoon, Kate had left the conference area in the administrative building and headed to her office there. She had unconsciously thanked Richard Castle yet again for carving out a large area – a large office – in the building for her to work out of. More importantly, he had taken space out of his own office and had it reconfigured to provide her with physical space, giving far more than lip service to his desire to have her work with him.

In her office, she had begun to make phone calls – her old cop habits and tactics rising up easily and taking over. She had stopped at Dr. Peraza's office down the hall, sticking her head in just long enough to ask Karen Marks where Robbie Johnson had worked, where he lived, and who his friends were.

Having this information, she had begun to recreate the past Thursday night – just two nights ago – to follow in the footsteps of Robbie Johnson. The first thing she had learned was that every Thursday night, Johnson visited this massage parlor in Chinatown. Billed as a foot massage and aromatherapy business, the tell-tale signs of a sexual business are easy to find for her experienced eyes as she and Castle enter the building.

Of course, that is what catches her eye immediately. The sexual hinting that permeates the building. Richard Castle, on the other hand, has had his eyes gravitate toward the office to the left of the hallway, where beaded strings take the place of a wooden door, granting access to the on-premise fortune teller.

"Business first, Rick," she reminds him as she hands a business card to the young Chinese woman who sits at the front desk. Along with the card, she shares a photograph of Robbie Johnson with the young woman.

"My name is Kate Beckett, I'm a private investigator" she begins. It's a risk, they have decided, to be so forthcoming about the nature of the call. But they have been warned about the hesitancy of the local Chinese to provide information to 'outsiders' . . . outsiders being defined as anyone not Chinese and anyone Chinese who lives outside Chinatown.

"Have you seen this man in the past few days?" Kate asks. "Robbie is a dear friend, and I know that he frequents this establishment pretty much every week."

Beckett and Castle have chosen this approach, to give the impression that they are friends on a first-name basis with Johnson, and concerned about his demise. The early evening news has already included a segment on the macabre killing, so the chances that the people here at this establishment are unaware of this is a risk not worth taking.

And that is assuming that no one here had anything to do with the killing. Doubtful, of course, but neither Kate nor Castle plan on leaving any stone unturned.

"Robbie was found dead this morning," Kate continues, "and as friends of his, we want to find out what happened. The cops don't seem to be moving too quickly on this," she lies, giving rationale for their involvement.

"Robbie was not here last night, but he was here Thursday night," the young woman answers in perfect English, without even a trace of Chinese dialect. It is a surprise here in Chinatown, given the closed-family nature of most of the businesses.

"Did he seem okay when he left here on Thursday night?" Kate asks, as Castle continues to glance down the hallway, peering at the puff of incense that makes its way into the hallway from the open beaded door.

"He left with a friend," the woman replies. "A female friend who –"

Her words are cut off by an older woman who enters quickly from a doorway behind the front desk, talking frantically in what sounds to Castle and Kate as Chinese. She is waving her hands furiously.

"I tell nothing, Mother," the young woman cries, now speaking clearly in broken English before reverting completely to the natural language being spoken by her mother. The two exchange a loud, fiery clip of words before the young woman quickly stands and leaves, offering not even a backward glance at the couple.

"Hmm," Castle manages as the woman walks away. At the same time, a woman's head slips out between the beads, beckoning him closer.

"Castle," Kate warns, but Castle is already walking, his inquisitive mind always searching for something new. She barely is able to fight back a smile. He has changed so much, and changed so little. No, he isn't writing anymore, but his mind hasn't shut off either. The fantastic, the unknown, the strange and – of course – dangerous – is still like a drug to him.

"Read your fortune?" the woman asks in broken English, taking Castle's hand and leading him inside. Kate is at his side a couple of seconds later.

"We don't have time for this, Rick," she warns, glancing at her watch. They have two more stops to make tonight, and knowing Castle, this could take a while.

"Spoilsport," he muses with a chuckle, then looks back at the fortune teller who is now seated at a small, round table. It is straight out of a novel, or a B-movie, he notes to himself.

"I will have to take a rain-check," he tells the woman, half-wondering if she will even understand the term. She doesn't respond. Instead, she simply pulls a card off the top of the deck and hands it to him.

"For luck," she tells him. She stands quickly, showing him a smile that misses two teeth on her top row before making her exit.

He glances at the card, with an image of a white chalice. Not being one expert in tarot cards, neither he nor Kate have any idea of the cards meaning. And since it was taken off the very top of the deck, neither give much credence to it – as if the ex-detective would anyway.

"Let's get out of here," Kate tells him, and they fall in step with one another and are out into the cool evening of the bay area within seconds. As they begin their walk down the street – literally descending back toward the bright lights of Grant Street, they begin their post-mortem.

"Anything useful?" he asks.

"Not sure," Kate tells him. "Whoever our little informant was, she is playing a nice game. She spoke to me in perfect, unclipped English – answering my questions. She told me that Johnson left the other night with another female. She was very cooperative. That is, until Mama showed up giving her the business."

"I noticed that, also," he agrees. "Once the older woman showed up, she reverted to a caricature of Chinatown women."

"The older woman?" Kate asks, eyes widened.

"Maybe she was her mother, maybe not," Castle replies. "And maybe the entire setup was nothing more than a pre-planned performance for our benefit. We stood outside looking at the building for a good half minute. Anyone inside could have been watching. And Mama's entrance, "he continues, placing visual quotations around the word Mama, "was timely to say the least."

"True," she nods as they inadvertently speed up as the descent angle becomes harsher the closer they get to Grant Street. "If that is the case, then this may have been a waste of time."

"I don't think so," he tells her, showing her the card before putting it in his inner coat pocket. "The older woman wanted us out of there. For all I know, the younger woman was in on it, or wanted to give you some information. All I know is our little fortune teller back there didn't need to give me this card."

"You think it is a clue?" she asks. "You think she was trying to tell you something?"

"Maybe," he answers. "But somehow, we need to get this card to someone who knows something about fortune readings, about tarot cards, to see what it means."

"Later, then," she reminds him. "We have a couple of more stops to make, and the first one is out at Madame Tussauds down at the wharf. I think this was a waste of time unless we can get an audience with the younger woman by herself."

He chuckles as they get to the car parked at the bottom of the street, leaving the seedy scene behind them.

"Other than that, how did you like the play, Mrs. Lincoln?" he asks, bringing a chuckle and hip bump from his partner as she walks to the passenger side. He clicks it open with the remote, and bends to open the door for her.

"Thank you," she smiles as she slides into the Ferrari, now more than used to his chivalrous ways. She closes her eyes for a few seconds, reveling in the still-newness of their relationship. It's been a lifetime since she came out here. At least that is how it seems. In reality, it has been going on only four months. So much has happened in so little time.

His scream pierces the night, snapping her out of her thoughts. Quickly opening the door, she bolts out and upright, staring across the hood of the car at Richard Castle, who is now holding the back of his head, his face a mask of pain.

"Rick!" she cries, and immediately is in motion, sprinting around the small vehicle to reach his side. She barely gets there in time, as his legs give out and he drops to the ground, banging his head on the driver's side mirror as he falls. Hitting the ground, he his momentum carries him from his side to his back. For a brief instant, he eyes are glazes, looking skyward. He doesn't see her. His mouth is moving, but no sound comes forth. Suddenly, any life in his eyes leaves as his eyes flutter once, then close.

"Rick!" Kate screams once more, now on her knees, her hands around his face. Years of training take over, and she immediately places two fingers on his neck, her eyes widening with fear when she finds no pulse.

"Rick!" she screams again, now taking her phone out and dialing 911, brushing his face back and forth, placing her ear next to his mouth to detect breathing.

Nothing.

Tears stream quickly now, as she glances down at the still form of the man she loves, her fingers frantically searching once again for a pulse – with no response.

"He's dead," she mumbles to the universe. "How?"

Her question goes unanswered as the 911 responders answer her phone call.


	3. Chapter 3

**Mannequins and Marionettes: Chapter 3**

 **.**

 **.**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

.

 _ **Saturday, 9:12 p.m., March 31, 2012, at the San Francisco Chinese Hospital on Jackson Street**_

.

"Kate!" the tall black man greets her as he enters the morgue area of the hospital. "I got here as soon as I could."

She falls easily into his arms, a well of emotions rising up and overcoming her. She allows him to all but hold her up, as the events of the past hour or so finally overtake her.

"Mike," she manages to get out between choked sobs.

Mike Monroe, the security chief from the Castles Complex leads her back to the chairs outside the morgue. Beyond the doors, the body of Richard Castle rests inside one of the bay drawers, still draped with a sheet. As a former detective, it was not Kate Beckett's first dead body, and so she has been able to remain just barely detached enough to answer questions from the staff and emergency personnel. That is, until she watched the body slide into the bay drawer and the small door close behind it. Since that moment, she has been damn near catatonic until this moment where Mike arrives.

"What the hell happened, Kate?" he asks, and his voice is rife with emotion as well. Richard Castle has been a true friend to Monroe as well.

"I don't know, Mike," she replies, the confusion from the night's events still evident on her face. "One minute we are laughing, walking down the street from the massage parlor we talked with you about – that is literally a couple of blocks from here. The next, Rick is holding his head, screaming in pain, and then he falls over dead."

"What?"

"I know, Mike, I know," she continues. "It makes no sense. Castle was perfectly healthy. We both just went through your mandatory quarterly physical last week. He was perfectly fine."

"He just fell dead?" Mike asks, still holding both of her hands.

"Yeah, just like that," she answers, her eyes glancing toward the doorway leading into the morgue office.

The door suddenly opens as she is looking that way, and the medical examiner for the night shift walks out. Both Mike and Kate immediately rise to their feet.

"Dr. Chen," Kate greets her, having met the woman roughly half an hour ago as the body was admitted.

"Ms. Beckett," the medical examiner nods toward Kate, then looks at Monroe.

"Mike Monroe, security chief for the facility out across the bay," Monroe offers by way of greeting with an extended hand.

"Where do we stand here?" he asks. He knows that Kate is on loose footing here because of the identity of the body in the room behind them.

"Well, the Pronouncement of Death was made at the scene by the paramedics, and the paperwork is all filled out," she begins. "I will start the autopsy within the next twenty to twenty-five minutes. I'm just waiting for a call from the local precinct."

"Do they suspect foul play?" Mike asks, drawing an awakening look from Kate Beckett.

"Well, let's just say that Mr. Castle has quickly formed some protective friendships with the local police department here in the city," Dr. Chen responds. "What he has attempted to do over the past few months has not gone unnoticed, and news of his death has drawn up a few red flags."

"News of his death?" Kate asks, her voice rising. "He just died roughly an hour ago. How would –"

"I would say the paramedics got the word out," the examiner interrupts. "Again, you underestimate what I have said. Many people – especially in our line of business where we see battered women more often than you can imagine – have reason to care about your friend."

"So, the authorities want an autopsy tonight?" Mike attempts to confirm.

"Yes," Dr. Chen replies, quickly glancing at Kate Beckett who has remained quiet.

"I am sorry for your loss, Ms. Beckett," Chen tells her. Chen knows little to nothing of Katherine Beckett, but the reaction from the ex-detective to the loss of Richard Castle leaves no doubt with the medical examiner that the relationship did not stop at the professional doorstep.

"Can I see him again?" Kate asks. She wants to see his face, his body, one last time before the cutting and suturing begins. One last time to live what was a beautiful, but short-lived dream.

"Certainly," Chen tells her, turning to open the door and lead Kate and the security chief into the morgue room where the bodies are contained.

.

 _ **Saturday, roughly five minutes ago, at 9:10 p.m., March 31, 2012, in the morgue at the San Francisco Chinese Hospital**_

.

The darkness is the first thing that he notices; the first thing that frightens him. The cold is the second. He blinks his eyes open, but sees nothing. There is a bitter, acrid taste in his mouth, and he moves his tongue around as if to expel an offending object. Blinking again, he now feels the sheet that is covering his face . . . no, it is covering his entire body.

"What the hell?" he thinks to himself, as he raises his head – sheet still covering his body – and bangs his head on a hard surface above him.

"What the hell!" he mutters again, and now a tightening claustrophobic fear strangles him, and even though he is cold – deathly cold – he fills the warm chill of sweat quickly forming on his brow. Instinctively he knows he is trapped. His first thought is that he is buried alive. Locked in a coffin. Easily the worst nightmare he could imagine for himself . . . for anyone.

In a fit of panic, he begins to yell and scream, banging his feet against the edge of his enclosure, desperately trying to free himself of the confining sheet. Then it occurs to him.

" _A morgue drawer! Not a coffin!"_ his mind screams out, and his mouth follows with yet another loud scream of rage and fear.

Now he is banging arms, legs, knees . . . anything and everything to free himself . . . to get someone – anyone's – attention, when another thought occurs to him.

" _I'm dead. I'm in a morgue. I'm dead. But I'm not dead,"_ he thinks to himself, and immediately, almost comically, his writer's mind begins to conjure up possibilities. He's always wanted a case of zombies, or vampires, or werewolves. He just never figured he would be playing the starring role.

His fingers instinctively reach for his neck, checking for bite marks. Finding none, and eliminating that particular option, he considers the horrid taste in his mouth and immediately opts for the zombie alternative.

"Help! Help!" he screams, frantically kicking harder now against the metal door that has enclosed him in this infernal coffin of sorts. Feeling it slightly give, he grabs a hold of a frame above him, and uses the rolling motion of the gurney he lies on to provide momentum into the door. A second and third time, he crashes into the door with his feet until it finally gives way, and the rolling gurney jettisons him outward into the empty morgue room. Losing his balance, he falls off the rolling table and lands on his knees with a painful thud.

"Shit!" he cries out, still partially entangled in the white sheet that has served as his covering. As he extracts himself from the offending object, he realizes his nakedness. He pulls himself up to a standing position, the sheet falling to the floor when the door opens from the morgue hallway, and a Chinese woman he does not know enters in . . . followed by a woman he certainly knows . . . and a second friendly face follows closely behind.

"What in the world?!" Dr. Chen cries out. Kate Beckett opens her mouth, but no sound escapes. The last hour has been nothing short of her worst nightmare come to life . . . and now it seems that is not the only thing come to life. In what should be a joyous moment, a macabre fear takes hold over her. Fortunately, Mike Monroe's reaction gives a short pause to the instant tension that has gripped the room.

"Well, this is something you don't see every day," Monroe smirks, staring at the naked, standing form of his boss and good friend.

"Castle . . . Rick?" Kate exclaims, finally finding her mental footing. A bright smile explodes across her face as she runs toward the naked man.

"Rick? It's really you?" she asks.

"It's me, babe," he replies, and he embraces her tightly in his arms.

"My God, you are cold," she mutters, but willing herself not to recoil. She isn't giving this miracle back.

"Mr. Castle?" Dr. Chen exclaims. "I don't understand."

"Well, you seem to be the only doctor in the room," he deadpans. "If you don't understand then I suspect we are all up the creek, so to speak."

"You were dead," Chen tells him.

"You're sure?" Castle asks as he briefly pulls away from Kate.

"I'm sure," the medical examiner replies. "Paramedics called it. They worked on you. Tried to revive you. No pulse. No breathing. No heartbeat."

"This is impossible," he tells the medical examiner evenly, then moves his gaze to Kate, repeating himself.

"This is impossible."

"I know, babe . . . but here you are," Kate offers weakly.

"Well, you always liked the supernatural," Monroe chuckles, his mind finding humor to be the best escape to the reality staring at him in the face. "And by the way, someone ought to find you some clothes . . . I mean, I like you and all, Castle, but . . ."

Again, realizing his nakedness, Castle drops quickly, bending down to retrieve the sheet that had fallen away. He quickly pulls it up, tying it expertly into a makeshift toga.

"Impressive," Kate remarks with a smile, now growing into this new reality . . . one that has brought him back to her.

"Years of practice," he offers her with a waggle of his eyebrows – giving her a glimpse of the old Castle. A glimpse she desperately needs at this point.

"Castle . . . care to explain what just happened?" Mike asks his friend. For her part, Dr. Natalie Chen is still dumb-struck . . . star-struck . . . and totally confused.

"Your guess is as good as mine, Mike," Castle replies, as he quickly gazes around the room. "Is there a glass of water . . . a soda . . . hell, a bottle of rum . . . anything to get this taste out of my mouth?"

Dr. Chen moves swiftly to the small portable fridge that stands next to her desk along the wall. She retrieves a small eight-ounce bottle of water, and tosses it toward the taller man.

"Sorry, fresh out of rum," she notes as he catches the bottle in the air. He opens it immediately and begins gulping down the clear liquid. Seconds later, he bends over, searching frantically for a sink. Not finding the sink in time, he launches clear vomit across the pristine floor.

"And again . . . you don't see _that_ very often either," Mike Monroe notes with a bit more apprehension in his voice this time. Dr. Chen simply nods her head, somehow satisfied with this latest development.

"I do believe your friend has been drugged," Chen whispers to Kate, who is staring wide-eyed at the taller man who has now gone to his knees again. Having seen him die less than an hour ago, this new development is far from comforting for the ex-federal agent.

"Are you all right, Rick?" Kate asks, now alongside him, her hands on his shoulders.

"I don't . . . I don't know," he admits, and his stoic answer brings a splash of cold air to those in the room. He winces against the harsh taste still within his mouth.

"What kind of drug does this, Doctor?" Mike asks the medical examiner, his voice low, his eyes on the couple kneeling on the floor before them.

"I . . . I really don't know," Dr. Chen replies, a hesitancy in her voice. There are a number of drugs that more or less simulate death . . . but by simulate death, I mean good enough to fool the average person. But good enough to fool a paramedic team? A paramedic team that attempted CPR? And an experienced medical examiner? I know of no such drug."

Monroe merely nods his head. He had been thinking the same thing. Her next words halt his train of thought.

"That being said, this is Chinatown. There are many things that happen here that we don't understand, and that is where Mr. Castle and his friend were before he dropped dead," she concludes.

"So, you think he was drugged, and that it happened tonight while they were in Chinatown," Monroe confirms.

"That would be my best guess," Chen tells him.

"So that means we need to backtrack our steps for the evening," Kate remarks, still on the ground with Castle and her back to both the security chief and medical examiner. She has been following their conversation without their knowledge, focusing both on their words and the man on the ground with her.

"Well, let me get some clothes on . . . preferably my own, before we go," Castle tells her.

"Oh no, Mr. Castle, there is no way you are leaving this hospital tonight," Dr. Chen warns him. "There are tests . . . oh, so many tests that we need to run on you. We need to have some idea of what is happening to you before we let you out of our sights."

"I tend to agree with the Doc, Rick," Mike Monroe adds. "You gave us all a scare here tonight."

"Gave _you_ a scare?" Castle remarks, sarcasm dripping heavily. "How do you think I feel?"

"Be that as it may, Rick, I think Mike and the good doctor are both right," Kate tells him, helping him rise slowly to his feet. "Mike and I can go back to the massage parlor, see what we can find. You need to stay here. If you have any kind of relapse, if there is any reoccurrence, I want you to be here where you'll be in good hands."

"Well, if memory serves, I was resurrected without any assistance from – as you say – the good doctor here," Castle whines, clearly disappointed in being so clearly outvoted. "Where are _you_ going?" he asks the doctor in question, who has walked slowly toward the door.

"Just calling for help," she replies, reaching for the phone on the wall. "And getting you admitted into this hospital. Tonight. As in right now."

"I still think –" Castle begins, but is interrupted by the doctor.

"Mr. Castle, I like you," Dr. Chen begins, "but at this particular moment, I really don't care about what you think. What I care about it is what _I_ think. And what _I_ think is that there is some weird shit going on here. I know the stories they tell down here in this area of the city. I've seen some strange things. And unless I am going to believe that you are some sort of zombie –"

"Which would be kind of cool, you have to admit," he interrupts, staring at Kate with a lopsided grin.

"Or worse, some kind of vampire –"

"Nope, already checked," he smiles, moving his neck from side to side to show the group the lack of fang marks. Kate and Mike Monroe cannot hold back snickers of laughter. They are used to this side of the ex-author. Clearly, Dr. Chen is not.

"I am being serious, Mr. Castle," Chen remarks, her frustration building. "You were dead. Not almost dead. Not kind of sort of dead. I examined you. Men and women I trust examined you."

She stops, walks back to her desk, and pulls a sheet of paper off the top of her desk, and walks toward Castle, handing him the paper.

"This Pronouncement of Death, this certificate indicates that by all legal accounts, you are dead, Mr. Castle . . . yet here you stand, full of life in front of me. And while I share the joy that your friends have at this news, I also want some answers. So forgive me, but no, you are not going anywhere tonight until I get those answers."

Walking back to the wall, she retrieves the phone, and utters one single word.

"Security!"

.

 _ **Saturday, 9:55 p.m., March 31, 2012, Back down the street in Chinatown, still on Jackson Street**_

.

"I don't like leaving Rick back there," Kate tells her companion, her tone carrying an ominous vibe in the cool evening.

"I don't either," Mike Monroe replies, as he walks in step down Jackson Street with Kate Beckett. "But until we know what is going on with Rick, he needs to be back there, at the hospital. And more important, whatever happened to him, from your description, happened here up ahead – and he doesn't need to be back here just yet either," he adds, pointing towards the two-story building that is now only fifty or so feet in front of them down the street. They continue walking downhill toward the structure, when Kate slows down to a stop.

"What's wrong?" Monroe asks.

"Plenty," Kate answers, a frown on her face. "The window. There was a bright, colorful sign . . . advertising a fortune-teller," she tells him, pointing at the window.

"What sign?" Mike asks.

"Yeah, that's my point," she remarks, noting that the sign is gone. She takes out her cell phone, idly wonders what else is going to be different when they get inside. They walk up the few steps, and don't bother knocking. Opening the door for Kate, Monroe steps back, allowing her to enter first.

An older man, one who was not in the building earlier this evening, sits at the front desk. That's the first thing Kate notices. The second is the incense. There is no smell of incense, which was fairly heavy earlier this evening. And finally, the beaded door that drew Castle's attention. It's gone, too. In it's place is a real door, a normal white door that is closed.

"I guess we're not in Kansas anymore, Mike," Kate deadpans as she shows her business card to the older man at the desk.

"My name is Kate Beckett, I am a private investigator . . . I was here earlier this evening," she begins.

"No English," the older man replies, shaking his head. "No English. Not welcome here."

"That sounds like decent English to me," Monroe remarks, his voice barely above a whisper. Kate merely nods her head in agreement.

Suddenly, the door replacing the beads opens, and two much younger, and tough-looking men walk out. They have Asian gang written all over, and they look dangerous. Both Kate and Mike assess the situation. Perhaps they can take them. Perhaps not. But clearly nothing easy is going to be learned this night, at this place.

"Is there a problem here?" one of the men asks. "Are you bothering our uncle?"

"Nope," Kate replies, popping the 'p' as she answers. "All good here," she concludes, tugging Mike along with her as she turns and walks back toward the door. Monroe has heard enough from Castle – and seen enough of the ex-detective to follow her lead. Once outside, though, he questions her.

"Why'd we leave?" he asks. We didn't learn anything."

"Oh, but we did, my friend," she smiles, showing him her phone. She has taken pictures, as her phone hung loosely in her hands facing the floor. She had subtly been turning it at angles, capturing specific shots.

"I'm curious who he is," she tells him as he stares at a picture of the old man.

"I'm curious who they are," she continues, as Mike stares at the next picture of the two young, gang-wanna-be members.

"And finally, I am very curious as to who she really is," she finishes, and Mike whistles as he sees a picture of and older woman who is hiding in the shadows behind a bookcase.

"Seen her before?" he asks.

"An hour ago, she was Mama," Kate smiles. "I want to know who she really is."

.

 _ **Saturday, 10:27 p.m., March 31, 2012, inside AT &T Park (Home of the Giants) in San Francisco **_

.

Juan Sistos whistles as he enters the last of the men's restrooms he is cleaning for the night. Opening day is just a few days away, and the last bit of clean-up is just about finished before the big day. The cleaning crew has been working overtime, getting the facilities ready, getting the seats cleaned, getting the stadium ready for baseball.

Sistos glances over the pristine field, smiling. He loves baseball. At fifty-seven years of age and having grown up in the city, he has memories as a young boy of games at Candlestick Park, on the other side of the city. The old park had a life of its own, but this new park seems smaller – more intimate – more baseball. The old Candlestick housed both the baseball Giants and the football Forty-Niners. This ballpark, however, is purely a baseball park. The purist in Sistos likes this.

He opens the door to the restroom, turning on the lights. His eyes are immediately drawn to the last urinal on the wall in the corner. There, a man in a baseball jersey stands hunched over the urinal, clearly doing his business. And clearly, he should not be here.

"Hey buddy, what do you think you are doing?" Sistos asks, something telling him to tighten his grip on the mopping stick he pushes along in the rolling bucket.

The man doesn't answer, clearly focused on his . . . task at hand . . . relieving himself. He wears a number 44 home jersey for the local team. McCovey's old number.

"Hey, I'm talking to you," Sistos remarks, raising his voice – and his mop stick – as he gets closer. That's when he notices. The man isn't moving. And he isn't relieving himself either. He is also standing at an odd angle. His leg is bent awkwardly to one side, while his arm holds him upright.

"Are you all –"

His words get caught in his throat as he notices the pale coloring, and the lifeless eyes that stare straight ahead – unblinking – at the wall in front of him. Slowly, Juan Sistos approaches until he is mere inches from the man. The maintenance janitor has been to a few funerals. He has seen bodies in caskets. He recognizes what is in front of him.

He knows right away that he is looking at a dead man. He slowly raises his hand -hesitantly – and touches the man's face. It is a weird feeling. It feels hard and yet mushy – yet not mushy. Almost cracking.

"Embalmed," he whistles, now very much alarmed.

At this close range, he can see the nail in the sleeve of the jersey that holds the arm in place on the wall. Now he also sees the two wires from the ceiling that hold the shoulders in place, keeping the dead man upright.

"A puppet," Sistos exclaims. "What a way to die," he muses sadly, as he turns and runs back to the doorway, calling for help.

.

 **A/N:** So, I won't be posting a new chapter for a week or so. We are headed east to visit our daughter in college, and watch a few basketball games, celebrate her birthday and just enjoy a little escapism from home. I hope everyone is enjoying this start to a new adventure in the Bay Area. Thanks to everyone for the reviews, the favorites and follows. I'm noticing a few new names on the follow list, so thank you very much to those of you who are new readers, and those of you who continue to follow me. As you can tell this is a different kind of Castle/Caskett story . . . but then again, the TV show gave us some interesting plot lines as well, if memory serves.

Man, I miss this show. I'm curious if anyone has caught Stana's new show on Amazon?


	4. Chapter 4

**Mannequins and Marionettes: Chapter 4**

 **.**

 **.**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

.

 _ **Sunday just after midnight, 12:07 a.m., April 1, 2012, at the San Francisco Chinese outside Chinatown**_

.

"There you are!" Kate remarks aloud, rising to her feet to greet Richard Castle. The resurrected man is being wheeled into his private hospital room – a large, but impersonal room on the fourth floor overlooking Jackson street below.

"In the very needle-pocked flesh," he replies with a small smile. The Chinese orderly pushes him toward the bed before slowing down and allowing him to stand on his own.

"To the bed, Mr. Castle," he directs him with a no-nonsense tone that brings a chuckle to Kate Beckett. She immediately recognizes the man as one who has spent just enough time with Richard Castle to either be a fawning fan or ready to never see the man again. Given that the orderly is – first – a man and second, frowning – she opts for the latter.

"Quite a few blood draws, I assume?" she smiles at the recently resurrected ex-author.

"I'm thinking that you're lucky I was not resurrected as a vampire," he smiles in return. "Because they've taken so much blood I would be ravished right now," he finishes with a waggle of the eyebrows, bringing an eye roll from Tao Yuan. Kate can't help but laugh out loud now, her mind conjuring up years of exasperated eye rolls she has made on behalf of this man.

"I'm guessing you have had enough of our friend here," Kate offers, extending her hand to the orderly.

"Mr. Tao here wants to be a doctor someday," Castle tells her as he leans backward, falling back onto the bed and quickly raising his legs and swinging into the long bed.

"A fine profession," Kate nods. "As long as you don't have too many patients like this one," she adds, still chuckling.

"I would agree," the tall, lanky orderly replies. "He is a cantankerous patient."

"A nice usage of the word there, Mr. Tao," Castle grins. "I still think you have a great future as a writer of magnificent medical stories that you witness . . . beginning of course with mine."

"No thank you, Mr. Castle," Tao Yuan remarks. "My life desire has always been to be a doctor, like my father."

"Then you will need to work on your bedside manner, my good man," Castle adds, trying hard – and failing miserably – to keep a stern look on his face. He has been, for lack of a better term, busting the chops of the young man for the past hour or so of blood draws, urine samples and CT scans. Kate immediately recognizes that whatever drug is running through Castle's system has – at the very least – somewhat diminished whatever few inhibitions he has, putting one Richard Castle in very rare form, indeed.

"My bedside manner is just fine, thank you," the flustered orderly retorts in a slightly combative tone.

" _Poor man, I know how you feel,"_ Kate muses too herself, still grinning broadly. The man she loves was dead, and now is alive. Nothing is going to bring down her good mood right now. At least not yet.

"Then why are you raising your voice to me, Mr. Tao?" Castle asks. "I have to say, you will never endear yourself to patients like this, given –"

"Rick," Kate interrupts.

"Yes?" he replies.

"Shut up," she tells him, and his face comically resorts to that of a young teenager caught smoking in the school restroom. He makes a zipping motion across his lips, then winks at Tao Yuan.

"My apologies, Mr. Tao," she tells the orderly. "My friend here is not himself tonight."

"Now we're just friends?" Castle pouts, and it is all she can do not to bust out laughing as the tall orderly moves to the door to leave the room.

"I will return in half an hour, Mr. Castle," he tells him. "Vitals, and other pleasant procedures," he says with Castle swears is an evil grin.

"You see what I mean!?" he exclaims to Kate, pointing to the now closing door. "That's what I mean! That's what I have been putting up with for the last –"

His dissertation is interrupted by her lips pressed lightly to his own. He stops, wide-eyed, in mid-sentence before allowing himself to relax into the kiss. He closes his eyes, inhaling the scent that is so familiar to him now, and moans in disappointment when she pulls her lips away after a few seconds.

"For a couple of hours, I didn't think I would be able to do this again," she tells him, her face still mere inches from his.

"What was it like?" she asks, and he knows what she means. The life-after conversation has come up more than once during their shared moments – usually with a few drinks in hand.

"Nothing," he tells her. "I don't remember anything. I didn't see any bright lights. I don't remember angels, or heaven, or –"

"You really think it would have been heaven you saw?" she giggles, giving him a slight punch in the arm.

"Oh, now we're a comedian, are we?" he offers her with a whisper. "Well, despite the pronouncements from Dr. Chen, I don't think I was ever truly dead . . . so heaven or hell were still pretty far away."

"Why do you say that?" Kate asks, now moving away from the bed. She grabs the chair she was sitting in when he entered the room and pulls it up next to the bed, and sits.

"Well, I know she stated that all of my vital signs obviously indicated I was dead," he begins. "But the body – the brain – can only go without oxygen for so long."

"And you were out for over an hour," she nods.

"Almost eighty minutes, according to Dr. Chen," he elaborates. "That is far too long for the brain to go without oxygen without any adverse effects."

"Who said there were no adverse effects?" Kate asks with mock alarm, before relaxing into a smile, which he reciprocates.

"Regardless, that's too long," he continues. "So that means that my brain was still getting oxygen. My heartbeat was non-existent – which only means it was beating very, very slowly. I don't pretend to understand, but all I know is that everyone thought I was dead. But I am alive, and I'm not some creature out of a B-horror movie . . . darn it."

"I know," she tells him. "Dr. Chen came in once I returned, and she –"

"Speaking of," he interrupts, glancing quickly around the room, only now noticing the absence of one Mike Monroe.

"Where is Mike?" he asks her.

"By now, back at the Castles," she replies. "Once we left Chinatown, he thought it best to get back to the campus, check on Karen and her baby. Today – well, okay, technically yesterday was a tough day for her as well."

He glances down at his watch, or rather his empty wrist to check the time. His expression changes as he notices the missing time piece.

"It's in the drawer there, babe," she remarks.

"Can't lose that," he says softly, remembering when she gave him his new watch, and the circumstances under which she presented it to him.

"How is she?" he asks.

"I haven't heard from Mike yet," she replies, "but he promised to call as soon as he knows something. Speaking of knowing something, we reached a bit of a dead end back at the massage parlor."

"How so?" he asks, his playful attitude now replaced by a stern expression.

"Well, it is almost like a movie . . . or a book you would have written," she explains. "The signage in the window was gone. No mention of fortune telling. The young girl at the desk wasn't there. In her place was an old man who acted like he had been there all night. And he had a couple of thugs there with him."

"Do tell," Castle muses aloud.

"I do," she grins, and he grins with her. This feels good. Their banter is familiar. But more than just familiar, tonight their banter is safe. It is a security blanket for him. It is a form of a safe haven, and thankfully she recognizes this. She realized it immediately while watching his interactions with the orderly.

"I did get a picture, though," she tells him, reaching into her purse and retrieving her cell phone. She touches the button bringing the phone back to life – chuckling to herself at the thought, given the proceedings of the past couple of hours – and pulls up the image she took, and shows it to him.

"I see," he says with a nod of the head. "I take it she didn't make this appearance intentionally."

"Nope," she replies, popping the 'p', and immediately blowing a bubble with her gum. It's a new thing for her, and as always, it brings a grin to his face. A grin that just as quickly disappears as he considers what she has told him.

"So, it was someone there who probably drugged me."

"Most likely our little fortune teller, who – in retrospect – _really_ wanted you to come back to her so she could give you that card," she continues.

"A card I still have, by the way," he tells her. "It should be in my inside coat pocket, over there on the –"

"No, we already confiscated that," she tells him. "Captain Saunders showed up with a couple of suits about half an hour ago, and took the card downstairs."

"Downstairs?" Castle asks, confused.

"He wanted it in his possession, but felt that given the nature of what happened, they may have the necessary . . . competencies . . . to run a few tests on it here. Hence, the suits."

"Ah, his own scientists," Castle nods in understanding.

"Yes," she replies. "He is hoping to know something by morning. And Dr. Chen is banking that whatever we find on the card, we will also find coursing through your system. At least that is the hope."

"Unless it has already worked itself out of my system," he remarks.

"That's her fear," she nods in agreement.

"Well, I spoke with her, and she is being fairly tight-lipped with me," he frowns. "I wonder what –"

His words and thoughts are interrupted by Kate Beckett's cell phone, which is humming with a ring tone familiar to both of them.

"That would be Mike," Castle muses aloud, pulling himself up into a sitting motion.

"Hey Mike," Kate answers, immediately putting the phone on speaker so Castle can listen in. "I have Castle on the phone with us. What's up?"

"Nothing good, I'm afraid," Mike tells them, getting both of their attentions. There is a waterfall flowing downward in Castle's stomach, getting more violent by the minute.

"I just got off the phone with Mayor Clooney," he tells them. "She offers best wishes toward your recovery, Rick, by the way. And also was very concerned at the same time."

"I'm assuming she didn't call specifically about me," Castle remarks.

"Probably not," Monroe agrees. "Actually, she said – and I quote – 'I have good news and bad news.'"

"I'm not sure I want to hear the rest of this," Kate offers, her voice solemn. She knows that Mike Monroe is not one given to dramatic hyperbole, so this can't be good.

"The good news," he begins with his friends, "is that Karen Marks is no longer under suspicion, although she remains a person of interest."

"Well, that is very good news, Mike," Kate tells him. She knows the next bit of information is likely going to be every bit at the opposite end of the spectrum. She and Castle wait for Mike to drop the other shoe.

"Yeah, it is," Mike responds. "I haven't spoken to Karen just yet. Given the time, I will probably wait until morning."

"So, what happened to take the suspicion away from Karen?" Kate asks.

"Well, that's the bad news," the security chief for the Castle's Complex replies. "The mayor was calling to let us know that a second murder victim was found tonight. Well, technically last night. It was called in by a custodian out at AT&T Park."

"Where the Giants play?" Castle asks.

"That's the place," Monroe answers. "The body was found in fashion very similar to Robbie Johnson. Very dead. Embalmed. And staged. This time, staged standing at a urinal out at the ballpark, taking an imaginary leak. And since this fits the pattern for the first murder, and Karen has been out at the complex this entire time, she is not a suspect."

"That's actually good news too," Castle remarks. "So what is the problem?"

"The problem is why Mayor Clooney called us in the first place," Monroe explains.

"Well, she called to let us know that another murder occurred, and that Karen was off the hook. That is nothing but good –"

"No, Rick," Kate offers with a knowing glance toward the phone – one that Mike Monroe obviously cannot see, but somehow senses.

"Kate's right, Rick," Monroe continues. "Taking Karen off the hook was actually the secondary reason for the Mayor's call. The primary reason was the identity of this second victim."

"Another boyfriend of one of our guests at the Castles?" Kate asks, hoping against hope that she is wrong with her suspicions.

"Not a boyfriend this time," Monroe answers. "A husband this time. Dude by the name of Josh Overstreet."

"Oh shit," Kate exhales. It takes Castle another few seconds before recognition dawns with him as well. His reaction mirrors hers.

"Oh shit," Castle curses.

"I take it you know what I mean, then," Monroe tells the couple.

"Kate knows him more . . . intimately than I do . . . did," Castle remarks.

"Yeah, if memory serves, she gave him quite the ass-kicking," Monroe remembers the story out loud, the beating the man received at Kate's hands at Camille Evangelista's home in the city. "Served him right, as I understand it."

"Yeah, but no one deserves getting murdered," Kate remarks.

"Well, that's not exactly true, babe," Castle defends. "I can think of quite a few people, right off the bat, that murder is actually too good for them."

"You know what I mean, Castle," she tells him, now staring at the phone, all but willing Mike Monroe to appear before them.

"Here's the problem," Monroe begins, trying to pull his friends back to the point at hand. "This is the second murder where the victim is the reason for a woman being admitted to our facility out here. One is interesting. Some people consider two a coincidence."

"But Sandra isn't 'some people'," Castle nods knowingly. He is working it out in his head right now, and the results are not promising. Not promising in the least.

"You're right about that, Rick," Monroe tells him. "Coincidence isn't the term the Mayor used. Conspiracy was the word she used. A conspiracy against our facility out here. _Your_ facility, Rick. Your _vision_."

"Someone is trying – in the most harsh manner possible – to give this place a black eye, babe," Kate tells him.

"Seems that way," he agrees, and suddenly the bothersome fact that he just fell dead and was resurrected seems long in the past.

"When the Mayor found out you were dead – before I was able to tell her about your miraculous recovery – her thought process was pretty clear. Three murders. Two men associated with women who checked into your facility. Then you die. It all points to someone with a vendetta against you, Rick."

"But I'm alive," Castle argues.

"The fact that you're alive only hardened her view that someone has it out for you, Rick," Monroe tells him.

"Someone who wants to damage the reputation of the Castles, for one," Kate states, with emphasis. "And the fact the Rick was attacked cannot be seen as a coincidence."

"As the Mayor said," Mike agrees. "Conspiracy, not coincidence."

"Shit," Castle remarks with a sad voice. "You just can't make this stuff up."

"Yeah, I guess this is crazy stuff even for you two," Monroe half chuckles on the phone. He's heard some of their stories.

"Well, actually," Kate begins with a smile Monroe cannot see, "even this is kind of tame compared to some of the cases Castle and I have found ourselves in."

"A body found in motor oil," Castle chuckles.

"The cheating husband found dead in the garbage chute," Kate remembers, almost too fondly. "And the woman found frozen on a construction site."

"No, no," he remarks excitedly. "The head. No body. A head frozen for future posterity."

"You can't be serious," Monroe whistles.

"Serious as a heart attack," Kate smiles. "So yeah, this one is weird, but certainly not the weirdest one we have seen."

"Nothing compares to watching the woman you love take a bullet, though," Castle tells her. "But I have to admit . . . dead bodies, embalmed and staged. Even I'm not quite that macabre."

"So . . . back to the present," Monroe tells his friends. "Someone is killing the significant others of women who admit themselves to your complex, Rick. Someone is picking off the men who have hurt these women."

"And the form of punishment . . . the way they are murdered hints that this is personal for someone," Kate muses aloud.

"But if it is personal," Castle argues, "If this is someone who has been personally hurt by one of these men, or emotionally hurt because of what they have done to one or more of the women at our place . . . why attack me? I mean, I'm trying to help them. What good comes of putting my place in a bad light. How am I hurting these ladies?"

"I agree with you, Rick," Kate tells him, touching his arm tenderly. "The last thing we need is this kind of publicity at the Castle's."

"Especially after the whole siege last month . . . month before," Monroe adds.

"Again, that wasn't our fault," Castle almost pleads now. He is watching his carefully executed plans torched and burning in mere seconds.

"It doesn't matter," Monroe reminds him. "We had this conversation after that entire fiasco. It doesn't matter that it wasn't our fault . . . that we were only defending ourselves. All that matters is that people – a lot of people – died on our campus, on our grounds."

"And now the men who have essentially put the women into our campus are being targeted," Kate continues. "While I suspect we will have the sympathy vote on our side, there are plenty of other people – powerful people – who will think otherwise."

Her words cause an extended quiet to take over the phone call.

Powerful people.

Their separate thoughts conjure up the wife of a city politician, the wife of a prominent CEO . . . and the girlfriend of a local professional sports athlete. All men whose actions have placed a woman at the Castles. All men with a reason to have an ax to grind with the women at the Castles . . . and illogically as it may sound . . . the Castle's Complex itself.

Powerful people.

"This isn't good," Castle remarks, speaking what is obvious to all on the call.

"What else did Sandra say?" Castle asks.

"Well, given your current state, she didn't say a lot more," Monroe tells them. "She was just glad you are okay, Rick."

Castle nods, knowing that his friend cannot see he and Kate on the other end. Just then, the door opens again and Tao Yuan re-enters the room.

"You're early," Castle frowns.

"You're popular, evidently," the tall orderly remarks with a smirk as he pushes the wheelchair into the room and toward the bed where Castle half sits, half lies. "It seems that you have been moved up to the head of the line."

"Lucky me," Castle mumbles under his breath.

"Mike, I'm going to have to call you back," Kate tells their friend. "They are taking Rick for another round of tests."

"Okay, keep me posted, and I will do the same for you," Monroe tells her, and hangs up.

"Okay, Rick," Kate tells him, standing to help him to his feet. "Let's take this slowly."

"I'm fine Kate," Richard Castle smiles as he swings he feet around and off the bed. Slowly he stands, allowing Kate to help him as she places her weight under his. "A lot going on all at once," he muses aloud to her.

"I know, babe," she agrees. "I know. But we will get through this. Like we told Mike, we've seen worse. I'm just glad that you're here. Alive. With me."

"Me, too," he grins as he stands fully upright, and takes two steps toward the wheelchair.

"Arrrgh!" Without warning, is all that he can manage to say. Scream, for that matter.

His eyes widen, and he bolts further upright and then straight backwards, his hands gripping his chest as if he has been shot.

"Rick!?"

"Mr. Castle!" Tao Yuan yells in alarm, rushing around the wheelchair to get to the ex-novelist who now lies on the bed, eyes open. Eyes glazed. Eyes darkening slowly.

"No! No!" Kate exclaims as she straddles the bed, getting as close as possible to him. She hears a rattled breath escape his mouth, and watches the life leave his eyes.

Again.

She idly hears Tao Yuan in the background, yelling the code into the phone on the wall. Seconds later, the orderly is alongside her, on the bed, his fingers on the neck of Richard Castle, unbelieving eyes not able to process what is happening to his famous patient.

Again.

"He's not dead," Kate mutters, repeating this line over, and over.

"He's not dead."

"Ms. Beckett," Tao Yuan reflects softly. "I'm afraid he is."


	5. Chapter 5

**Mannequins and Marionettes: Chapter 5**

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 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

.

 **A/N:** Okay, some serious apologies are in order here, as it has been months and months since I have updated this story. Truth be told, until last week I hadn't read or written anything here on the site, as I have been battling an illness, and the treatments and surgical procedures have just gotten in the way of any real inspiration. Thanks to GeekMom, a very good friend, for kind of snapping me out of my doldrums with Chapter 40 of Martha's Heart, one of her best. We chatted a bit and, low and behold, my inspiration started to creep back in within the last week.

You may need to go back and re-read Chapters 1-4, yeah it has been that long. For now, let's continue with the story, which I have to admit, after all these months is going to go in a very different direction than I had originally planned; one that I hope is better and more interesting.

.

 _ **Still Sunday, after midnight, 12:47 a.m., April 1, 2012, at the San Francisco Chinese Hospital outside Chinatown**_

.

The room is freezing cold, and the lack of windows brings a claustrophobic feeling to those not used to the surroundings. Although there are five people in the room, the only sound that can be heard is of the moving second hand on the old-school analog clock on the wall. Every breath is muted, every breath taken is silent, as if any noise by anyone in the room will ruin the moment.

Ruin the hope.

Richard Castle's lifeless body lies on the table – they haven't bothered to place him on a gurney. They have brought him down to the morgue – just from a policy standpoint. But given the events from earlier in the evening – or the previous evening as it now stands – they aren't bothering to put him inside one of the morgue bins. There is clearly an air of expectancy in the room. And the expectation defies logic, defies reason. But virtually everyone in the room is waiting for the impossible.

Waiting for Richard Castle to – for a second time – resurrect himself back into the land of the living.

Dr. Chen, for her part, is convinced that Castle is drugged. That his 'lifeless' body is actually in a state of hibernation of some type. The seconds pass and turn into minutes. Kate Beckett glances at her watch, ignoring the clock on the wall as she bites her lip and returns her gaze to the monitor.

Suddenly, a single blip from the monitor, and Dr. Chen is rewarded with the cheer that explodes in the room when as suspicions are confirmed.

"There!" she exclaimed triumphantly, as the group who have been fixated on the monitor she hooked up to Richard Castle's 'dead' body almost five minutes ago. A tiny but clearly visible blip on the screen indicated a single heartbeat.

"That's impossible," Tao Guan mutters under his breath.

"You say that in this city . . . in _this region_ of this city," Dr. Chen comments with a sarcastic chuckle, marveling at the younger man's naivete.

"The heart cannot beat that infrequently and still maintain –"

"I suspect that Mr. Castle's heart is beating just fine," she interrupts. "Whatever drug is in his system is masking most of the heartbeats – and masking his breathing."

"You think –" he begins

"It is almost like whatever is in him is beating for him, breathing for him – yet masking each of these signs"

"A drug designed to simulate death?" Kate Beckett muses aloud, shaking her head at the implications, when all hell breaks loose with the opening of the door to the morgue . . . and a high-pitched scream.

"Alexis," Kate almost screams herself, as the young red-headed woman bursts in past the guards, with an almost madness emanating from her eyes.

"Mike said he was fine! Mike said he was alive. I get here and . . . Oh my God! Dad!"

Kate rushes toward her wrapping the younger woman in her arms, but the moment has given the younger Castle a rush of adrenaline. She easily almost tosses Kate aside, rushing to the table where her father lies with a sheet covering all but his face.

"Who is this?" Dr. Chen asks angrily, wondering how this stranger has gotten past security. Then the words of the woman register with her. She said the word 'dad'. This makes sense now.

"Your father is not dead, Ms. Castle", she begins, but Alexis isn't listening. They are in a morgue. His lifeless body is covered on a table. He sure as hell looks dead.

"He said he was fine, that it was all a mistake," she cries, her tears staining her face as she continues her previous thought out loud.

Mike Monroe had called her to let her know what was going on with her father. Knowing the relationship between the father and daughter, and that Castle likely wasn't making any phone calls at the moment, Monroe took it upon himself to inform the young woman of what had been happening to her father throughout the night. Despite his assurances, Alexis Castle needed to see for herself that her father was all right, given the fact that he was staying overnight in the hospital.

The long drive from Sausalito across the Golden Gate Bridge, through the old Presidio Army base had taken her on Lombard Street to Van Ness Avenue where she had turned and gunned her Prius – as much as it could accelerate – to Washington Street. Turning down the one-way street, she made her way into Chinatown, where she back-tracked to the hospital here on Jackson Street.

Her mind had been a jumble of emotions – she had been frantically calling Kate Beckett – who was not answering her phone. If everything was ok, then why wasn't she answering her phone? Why wasn't he answering his phone?

In some ways, this sounded like one of her dad's pranks – but it is far from funny.

" _But Dad hasn't done pranks in months,"_ she had reminded herself during the drive. _"He's turned positively serious since coming out here . . . especially in the last few months."_

She had actually been happy when they moved out here to California. She thought leaving New York City would be good for her dad. Leaving the detective. Leaving the dangerous life that worried Alexis endlessly about her dad's safety. So far, it's been anything but. Sure, her father and the detective have more than reconciled and settled into a comfortable – and comforting – relationship. But the danger? For all of the madness the Castles endured in New York, an attack force assaulting their home – okay, their place of work, actually – that was something new, and on an entirely different level on the danger scale.

Now she finds herself in a very white and sterile room with Kate Beckett and these strange doctors, speaking a foreign language in the middle of Chinatown, with her father looking far from okay, regardless of Mike Monroe's optimistic pronouncements. Suddenly, she finds herself spinning around, and facing the newly-certified private investigator.

Alexis, listen to me," Kate tells her, eyeing her evenly as she grabs the younger woman by the face to hold her attention.

"Your dad is . . . "

She pauses for a brief second, searching for the right words. It has been that kind of a night.

"Your dad is not dead, Alexis," she continues. "He is not completely well, as you can see for yourself," she tells her, pointing at the body on the table.

'We believe your father has been drugged, Ms. Castle," Dr. Chen continues, taking over for Kate. "He is experiencing a side effect . . . or perhaps the main effect . . . of whatever drug he was administered. It simulates death. And the simulation is very convincing."

"Convincing enough to fool a team of experienced paramedics," Tao Yuan adds, drawing Alexis' attention to the tall orderly. Another woman, who so far has remained silent, stands alongside him next to the table, both of their attentions on the monitors.

"So – so he's not . . . dead?" Alexis asks, allowing a faint hint of hope to taint her voice.

"No," Dr. Chen replies. "He is in a state of . . . I would say suspended animation, but hibernation appears to be the more accurate term. He is exhibiting all of the signs that a warm-blooded mammal would show – "

"My God, he is so cold!" Alexis exclaims, as she places her fingers along his cheek, as his head is the only part of his body exposed above the sheet.

"Yes," Chen smiles, "as I was saying, he is exhibiting all the signs that a warm-blooded mammal would show, including a dramatically reduced body temperature, dramatically reduced breathing and heart beats. Right now, I would say he is breathing two, maybe three breaths a minute. And even those are almost imperceptible."

"Are you certain about this?" Kate asks. "I mean, I saw the heartbeat and all – we all did – but this is all just a little too fantastic, even for one of his books."

"It is either a state of hibernation, or an actual resurrection from true death" the other woman standing next to Tao Yuan remarks. They are the first words of the Chinese woman since she entered the room.

"I for one, am not ready to anoint your friend here as a god of some type," the woman continues, "so let's agree on hibernation."

The sobering words have a silencing effect on the room. For a few seconds no one says a word, and all eyes are either on the figure on the table, or the monitors he is hooked up to. Alexis finally breaks the silence.

"He'd kind of like the god angle," Alexis jokes, muttering under her breath. Kate simply smiles in agreement, squeezing the hand of the younger woman. No words are spoken again for the next minute or so, until the younger woman can no longer stand the silence.

"Why are we just standing here . . . sitting here?" Alexis asks, the exasperation clear in her voice and painted across her face. "What are we doing?"

"We are waiting, Ms. Castle," Dr. Chen tells her, as a couple of other heads in the room nod in agreement.

"Waiting for what?" Alexis asks.

"For your father to awaken again," the other woman in the room replies. She glances down at her cell phone for a moment, and without another word, the Chinese woman turns and walks to the door, and leaves the morgue room without a glance backward.

"Odd," Dr. Chen remarks as she follows the other woman's movements.

"Odd that she left like that?" Kate Beckett asks.

"No," Chen replies. "Odd that she would even be here in the first place."

"Who was she?" Alexis questions, without taking her gaze from her father on the table next to her.

"That was Dr. Teresa Argento," Dr. Chen replies.

"Could have fooled me," Kate offers with a chuckle, thinking to herself that this Dr. Argento is the most Asian looking woman one could possibly meet, yet her name offers little hint of that. Immediately she begins to conjure up possibilities in her mind when Dr. Chen begins speaking again.

"She is the Chief of Staff here at this facility," Chen tells them.

"Wow, she is young for such a position," Beckett remarks. Tao Yuan simply nods his head knowingly.

"She is forty-eight years young," Chen continues. "I wonder why your friend here is of interest to her. She wasn't even supposed to be here last night. And we intentionally put a media lockdown on the events of this past evening. The only call we allowed out was to the mayor."

Kate nods, taking in this new information and filing it away. She glances at the doorway where Argento has passed through, and returns her attention to the figure on the table.

"Come on, Castle," she mutters through gritted teeth, and blinks away tears that threaten to spill out. "Come back to me."

.

 _ **Still Sunday, after midnight, 1:05 a.m., April 1, 2012, at the San Francisco Chinese Hospital outside Chinatown**_

.

Dr. Teresa Argento quickly makes her way through the hallway leading away from the morgue and to the elevator at the end of the hall. Punching the lobby button, she hums a tune in her head as she gathers her thoughts for the upcoming discussion. As the door opens she walks straight to the front entry doors to the hospital. She smiles at the large black limo that is parked in the distance, about a block away.

Walking briskly in the midnight cold, she wraps her coat tightly around her and walks directly to the back door, which is unlocked. Without invitation, she opens the door and slides into the backseat.

"Mr. Carlos," she offers in greeting.

"Dr. Argento," the naturally tanned man replies with a smile. "What do you have for me?"

At forty-eight years of age, Teresa Argento is, indeed, young for the position she now holds, and entirely beholden to one Sam Carlos. Although she is a good decade older than the man she sits next to, she came under his radar in the past few years, and it could be said that the San Francisco mobster opened a few doors and greased a few wheels to place her in her current position.

When word came to her earlier in the evening that Richard Castle had been brought in dead – to her hospital – and had miraculously been resurrected – she texted her mentor with the information. His standing orders to anyone within his reach is always simple – if anything happens within your domain that intrigues you, then it intrigues me. It is one of the ways that he stays so in touch with even the most minute occurrences within 'his' city.

And a dead man resurrecting himself is, indeed, something that intrigues Sam Carlos. And it has been made all the more intriguing once he learned the identity of the mystery patient.

"It is a conundrum, my friend," she begins. "All indications, from the paramedics I spoke with personally, were that your friend, Mr. Castle, was dead. Attempts at CPR were unsuccessful. Ultimately, they signed the forms, made the pronouncements, and brought the body to the morgue, where roughly an hour and a half later, he simply awakened, vomited, and by all accounts appeared perfectly fine."

She pauses to allow this information to sink in to the man next to her. His stare – one she has never gotten used to – tells her to continue.

"Some time later, he –"

"Now, Teresa, you are a scientist, and experienced doctor," Sam Carlos interrupts. "I am not interested in 'some' time later. How much time exactly."

"Roughly three hours," she corrects herself, as her companion nods his head.

"Roughly three hours later, according to Dr. Chen, Mr. Castle grabs his chest as if he is having a heart attack, and falls over dead again."

"And is he, as you say, truly 'dead' again?" Carlos asks.

"No," Dr. Argento replies. "He is in a state of suspended animation, a hibernation of sorts. His body temperature has lowered considerably, and he is taking only a few imperceptible breaths each minute. Similarly, his heart rate has slowed to a couple of imperceptible beats per minute."

Carlos simply nods his head, and his response surprises the Chief of Staff.

"Interesting," he mutters to himself.

"It sounds as if you are not at all surprised with what I am telling you," Argento remarks, testing the waters. She knows that this man will not say anything that he does not want anyone else to know. So his next words surprise her even more.

"I am not surprised with the medical report you have provided," he begins. "I _am_ surprised with the identity of the patient upon whom this is being tested."

"Tested?" she argues?

"Poor choice of words, you are right," he corrects himself. "Not tested. Inflicted is the more accurate term."

"But why?" She asks, risking a little more in this conversation. Always a danger with this man, yet he has always treated her well. And of course, she is where she is now entirely because of him.

"That, my dear doctor, is something not worth your concern," he tells her. "What _is_ worth your concern is that you do everything you can to bring him out of this, each time it occurs."

"This is going to happen again?" she marvels, the surprise evident on her face.

"Oh yes, quite a few more times," he remarks, and there is almost a sadness in his voice. "And unless some serious advances have been made in the past three quarters, this will not end well for Mr. Castle."

He reaches across the doctor, opening the door for her, which tells her the meeting is over.

"Thank you, Teresa," he tells her as she stretches her legs outside the limo, preparing to depart. "Take care of my friend in there. He is doing many good things for our city."

"Yes, sir," Teresa offers, and closes the car door and begins to walk away. Suddenly, the sound of a motorized window rolling down stops her in her tracks. Carlos extends his head out of the window, calling toward the woman.

"Oh, and Dr. Argento," he remarks, falling back into a more official tone. "Let me know when our patient awakens . . . and by this, I mean I wish to know exactly how long he was out this time before he awakened . . . to the minute, Dr. Argento. To the minute."

With that, the window closes and as if by some unspoken command, the driver of the limousine immediately pulls away from the curb, leaving the scene behind them. The privacy window between the driver's seat and the back area slides down.

"So? What do you think, sir?" Willie Crockett asks, a single toothpick dangles from his lips as he speaks.

"I think I need to pay a visit to an old friend who has obviously made some interesting advancements to a project," Carlos tells him.

"Advancements with some serious side effects, I'd say," Crockett offers.

"Indeed, my friend. Indeed," Carlos agrees.

"We headed to his house now – wake and rouse?" Crockett asks, a small menacing smile growing on the black man's face.

"No, no, Willie, nothing so draconian . . . not yet," Carlos answers. "I think a simple rousing phone call will do for now," he tells his driver who is obviously much more than just a chauffeur. "All I want right now is information."

Carlos glances at his phone, and smiles. It is 1:17 in the morning.

"I will let him sleep another half hour, get deeper into sleep," he smiles. "One is always more cooperative in that state,"

He whistles to himself as Crockett accelerates the vehicle, putting the outskirts of Chinatown behind them.


	6. Chapter 6

**Mannequins and Marionettes: Chapter 6**

 **.**

 **.**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

.

 _ **Sunday at 1:24 a.m., April 1, 2012, at the San Francisco Chinese Hospital outside Chinatown**_

.

"What the . . . Oooooh."

Richard Castle shakes his head, immediately regretting the motion as sledgehammers begin chiseling away inside his head. Around him in the sterile white room, an informal applause has broken out. Towards the back of the room, Dr. Teresa Argento simply nods her head as she glances at her watch, noting the time. She had walked back into the room minutes ago after her conversation with Sam Carlos, and her 'work', as it were, is done here. She leaves the room – unseen – without another word.

"Welcome back, Mr. Castle," Dr. Chen smiles, glancing over at Kate Beckett who is now working her way around the bed to his side. Alexis is alongside her.

"Who . . . who are you?" Castle asks, a quizzical look on his face as he eyes Dr. Chen. The smile on the doctor's face freezes, then disappears.

"Babe, it's me," Kate whispers, coming alongside his cheek.

He turns his head, smiling, instantly recognizing the ex-detective and the red-headed young woman next to her.

"Hey Pumpkin," he offers, bringing tears down the cheek of his daughter.

"Hey Daddy," is all she can manage at this time.

Kate runs her fingers along his cheek, rising upwards into his hair. He leans into the small, intimate act, but once again, such a simple motion induces more pounding in his head. He immediately winces against the pain.

"Mr. Castle," a now very concerned Dr. Chen continues, "you don't know me?"

"No," he replies evenly, closing his eyes against the pounding. "Should I?"

"Yes, you should," Kate answers for the doctor, now frowning herself. Yes, she heard his initial response to the doctor, but her euphoria over his now most recent resurrection took priority.

Not anymore.

"What's wrong with him?" Kate asks, now focusing her attention on the doctor, her fingers still softly threading themselves through Castle's hair.

"That's what we want to find out," Tao Yuan remarks, glancing sideways at Dr. Chen who has produced a small flashlight from her pocket. She points it at Richard Castle's eyes, now moving into examination mode. The air of happiness that had taken over the room has been replaced by a heavy apprehension.

Dr. Chen had wanted to see if a pattern emerged, or if anything new developed. Now she is talking out loud.

"Eighty minutes last time," she begins as she glances into Castle's eyes with the light.

"So, that is roughly fourteen minutes longer this time," Tao Yuan tells her, marking the difference down in the patient chart he holds.

"Yes, ninety-four minutes this time," she agrees.

"What do you mean _this time_?", Castle exclaims, fear now taking over. "And why am I in a hospital in the first place? What happened to me?"

"Babe –" Kate begins, but Dr. Chen interrupts her.

"I'm sorry Miss Beckett," Dr. Chen tells her without taking her eyes off her patient. "I need answers first. While things are still fresh. Mr. Castle, tell me the last thing you remember."

"Kate and I were standing next to the car, outside a massage parlor in Chinatown," he begins. His words cause a barely audible gasp to escape from Kate's lips. Alexis notices the tightening in the woman next to her.

"We had just visited the parlor, and didn't really get any answers," he continues.

"That was roughly five hours ago, Mr. Castle," Dr. Chen tells him. "What do you remember after that."

"Nothing," Castle replies. "There's nothing to remember. I have a big headache. You said it was five hours ago. I must have passed out."

"Passed out?" Kate questions aloud, eyebrows raised. "That's what you –"

Again, she is interrupted, this time by Tao Yuan.

"Please Miss Beckett. This is important. We have to document anything and everything that is different this time."

"This time?" Castle asks, now becoming agitated. "That's the second time you have said that. What do you mean _this time_ –"

I mean this is the second time this has happened to you in the last five hours, Mr. Castle," Dr. Chen tells him. "The first time, we thought you were dead."

"Who thought I was dead?" Castle asks, glancing around the room.

"All of us, babe," Kate replies. "You had no vitals. No heartbeat, no breathing. The paramedics worked on you for a good half hour."

"It was even reported to the news stations, Daddy," Alexis tells him. "Then they reported that somehow, miraculously you came back."

"Really? Ok, that's pretty cool," the ex-author smiles.

"Yeah, there he is," Alexis smiles in return.

Kate, however, is not smiling. Neither are any of the other white-clad officials in the room. The fact that their patient remembers nothing about any of this is troubling, to say the least.

"Miss Beckett," Dr. Chen calls out, suddenly halting her examination. She moves toward the wall, grabbing a chair and pulls it alongside Castle's bed, while pointing out another chair in the room for Beckett to grab. Motioning her to sit, Dr. Chen waits for her to sit alongside Castle on the other side. Alexis continues to stand next to her, her fingers intertwined with those of her father.

"Mr. Castle doesn't remember anything," she begins. "That is a new symptom of whatever is afflicting him. Memory loss. I need for you to start putting in the missing pieces – both for us to document again, but also to see if anything jogs our friend's memory here."

"Why?" Kate replies? "We have been through this before, two or three times. I mean, sure, if you think it will help Rick, but I am not sure –"

"But he remembers none of it, Miss Beckett. And I am looking for triggers," Dr. Chen replies. "Your friend here has been drugged. Often, the drugs we encounter down here in Chinatown have a trigger. A word, a phrase. A memory. Something innocuous to any of us, but something that would mean something to Mr. Castle. Or to you."

"I don't know," Kate begins, but is again interrupted.

"It's very important, Miss Beckett," Teresa Argento tells her, and the room at large. The entire room turns to face the Chief of Staff. Argento had exited the room for a couple of minutes and returned with her phone in her hand without anyone realizing she had left. No one notices that her phone is in the middle of a call as she speaks, nor do they notice the blue tooth earpiece in her ear.

"I don't know where to start?" Kate tells her. "Castle and I left the parlor, caught up a little bit about the very short meeting we had in there, and then he fell over. Dead, I had presumed."

The Chief of Staff stares at her for a moment, as if she is distracted. Suddenly, she begins speaking again.

"When you were – as you said – catching up on the meeting – what did you discuss?" she asks.

"I don't know," Kate replies angrily. She doesn't appreciate being grilled and appreciates the lack of attention being paid to Richard Castle even less. "Shouldn't we be focused on Rick here? He's the one lying in a hospital bed!"

Dr. Argento stares at her for a couple of seconds, before turning her head sideways, almost comically. She then turns back, handing the phone to Kate Beckett.

"Who is this?" Kate asks the doctor before placing the instrument to her ear. Once the phone is next to her ear, however, her demeanor changes completely. Yeah, she recognizes the voice immediately.

"Hello Kate," Sam Carlos begins. "I'm sorry to be reacquainted yet again under duress. We really have to try something different soon."

"Sam?" Kate questions into the phone, but quickly recovering. "What in the world are you . . . how did you get . . ."

She stops her questions, remembering exactly who she is speaking with. Richard Castle has also heard the name she uttered, and it has caused him pause as well.

"Kate – in a very short while, I will be there – later this morning when the sun comes up, I promise," Carlos begins. "And I promise that I will have more information to share at that time. But right now, you can help me, Kate. And you can help Mr. Castle. You can help by filling in some blanks. I know that Mr. Castle is important to you. Because of that, he is important to me also. But I need you to put personal feelings aside for a moment and become that stellar detective that I know you still to be."

His words have the desired effect. The change in the once-NYPD detective is evident even to the casual observer in the room, as she moves away from the bed toward the door.

"Babe?" Castle questions, now becoming more afraid with each passing second. She simply raises a finger, asking him to wait. Her eyes tell him she won't hold any secrets, which calms him.

For a few seconds.

"What do you need to know, Sam?" Kate begins.

"Something was said, Kate," he tells her. "You said something outside that parlor. Or Mr. Castle said something. I have a hunch as to what might be happening, but everything I know about this particular nasty little guy always starts with a word or phrase."

"You think he – or I – were hypnotized?" she asks. "We weren't in there long enough –"

"No," he tells her, interrupting. "If this is what I think it is, it is triggered by a memory. Or multiple memories. A theme of sorts. Something in your past. Something in his past."

"Geesh, he's a writer, for God's sake, Sam," she whispers into the phone. "There could be almost anything he has read, written . . . or he and I have experienced that could trigger something."

"Indeed," Carlos replies, nodding his head on the other end. "That's why I am asking you to think – think Kate! You love this man, right? Just go back a few hours. Surely you remember your conversation – it could not have lasted that long."

Kate closes her eyes, rubbing the bridge of her nose with two fingers. Suddenly, she is tired. Very tired. This has been a long day. What began the first thing yesterday morning with an impromptu visit from the mayor ended up with a night-long vigil into the wee morning hours at this hospital. She recognizes the tell-tale signs of a weary body wanting to shut down.

She takes a deep breath, steeling herself against the coming weariness.

" _I'm a cop"_ she tells herself. _"Sure, I'm called something different now, but I'm still a cop at heart,"_ she reminds herself as she opens her eyes, a new clarity in place.

"We started talking about the short meeting in the parlor," she begins with Carlos. "We went in, met a young woman who spoke perfect English and seemed willing to help. Within a few words, an older woman –"

"I assume both of these women were Chinese?" Carlos asks, interrupting again.

"Yes," Kate gives him as a one-word response.

"Thank you," he tells her. "Please continue."

"The older woman started giving her the business for speaking with Castle and I, and the younger girl immediately reverted to a clipped-English dialect."

"Interesting," Carlos comments.

"We thought so, also," she continues. "The younger girl referred to her as 'Mama'."

"That means nothing, Kate," Carlos dismisses. "Here – in my world - the title of 'Mama' is used just as easily with a Madam of a whorehouse as it is one's natural mother."

"I understand," Kate agrees, nodding her head, with a glance back to an increasingly nervous and agitated Richard Castle who is being peppered with questions by both Dr. Chen and Tao Yuan.

"Whatever she was, she didn't want the younger woman talking with us," Kate continues. She pauses for a few seconds, drawing Carlos' interest.

"Kate?" he asks. "What are you remembering?"

"Castle and I wondered whether the entire meeting was a set-up," she recalls. "He and I had stood outside the parlor for a minute or two before walking in. Anyone inside could have been watching, and staged the entire meeting – from the younger woman, to the older woman interrupting, to the other woman giving Castle a fortune card."

Sam Carlos is quiet on the other end for a few seconds, considering this information. He files it away. Kate could be correct. Perhaps it was all staged. But that is for later. Right now, he is looking for anything they could have said to trigger Castle's episode.

"Please continue, Kate," he finally says.

"That's about it, Sam. We got into the car, and –"

"No, Kate, you did not get into the car," Carlos corrects her. "From what I understand, Castle passed out before he got into the car."

"That's true," she agrees. "We spoke of needing to go down to Madame Tussauds to check out a murder that had occurred there and mentioned this little trip down to Chinatown had been a waste of time."

"That's it?" he asks, clearly disappointed. So far he has heard nothing of real value.

"Well, Castle did make one of his ill-timed comic remarks," she recalls. "We had wasted time in Chinatown at the parlor, and he joked – asking me how l liked the play?"

"What?" Carlos asks.

"You know," she half chuckles. "When you have a bad night, or a bad meeting . . . you ask 'Other than that, how did you like the play, Mrs. Lincoln?'"

Sam Carlos is silent for a moment, and unknown to Kate, he smiles on the other end. Suddenly, he sees an incoming call on his phone.

"Kate, that was important. The two of you have a traumatic experience in your history with guns . . . gunshots in particular . . . gunshots at you, Kate. Keep going down that path. I have to take this – I am sorry, my friend. I will see you later this morning."

With that, Sam Carlos signs off of the call with Kate, and clicks over to a new, more important call for the moment.

Back at the hospital, Kate silently moves back toward the Chief of Staff, handing the woman her phone.

"Well?" Dr. Argento asks.

Kate doesn't reply. She knows Sam Carlos. Despite who the man is, what he has become, Kate Beckett trusts Sam Carlos.

Dr. Teresa Argento, she doesn't know from the man in the moon. And right now, the interrogation of her lover lying in the hospital bed is of greater importance. She moves back toward the bed, her mind racing in a thousand different directions now, but focused on the assassination of a long-dead American president and how a morbid joke could have triggered what is happening with Richard Castle.

Now that she has something specific to look for, she starts rewinding her conversation with Rick Castle after his first awakening, as she tries to focus on the questions being asked of him by the medical staff at his bed.

.

 **A/N:** So – I wonder if there is anyone left to read this story . . . hehehehe . . . My apologies to everyone for the total disregard I have shown here. To be honest, I actually considered just deleted the story, pulling it off the site, as I wasn't sure how I would focus on it again. Last year, I spoke of an illness I was fighting. Many of you who have messaged with me know it was bladder cancer. I can never thank those of you enough for your kind words of support and your prayers. Last summer was filled with chemotherapy for me, and last October I had my final surgery where they took my bladder and prostate. The months since then have been filled with me trying to regain my strength and get accustomed to this new normal I am living. And honestly, a little of a pity party over what I have been through co-mingled with extreme relief and gratitude that I am cancer-free now. I am writing my third book now, this one focused on those experiences and the resurrection I am experiencing myself – and it was that feeling of resurrection which brought me back to this story.

So – again, for those who were into the story, I am so sorry for my negligence. I hope to have this one finished by Christmas. Then I have to decide if I am going to continue writing here, or go in a different direction (my wife and I are big fans of the Lucifer series now on Netflix and my warped mind has gone in so many directions about that already). But I hope to finish this to your satisfaction. I do miss Castle on television.

God bless you all.


	7. Chapter 7

**Mannequins and Marionettes: Chapter 7**

 **.**

 **.**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

.

 _ **Sunday at 2:18 a.m., April 1, 2012, in Santa Clara at the residence of Andrew Klein**_

.

The ringing phone on the bedside annoys the couple sleeping in the bed. At just after two in the morning, with an important investor meeting staring at him in less than six hours – yeah, Andrew Klein is quite annoyed.

"Dismiss the damn thing," Cassandra tells him.

Their kids are fast asleep in bed upstairs, so there is no reason to ruin their sleep. The unlisted call isn't from either of the parents. As far as the Silicon Valley power couple are concerned, everyone of importance is alive and well in their house.

Andrew Klein is the CEO and founder of NuGenetix, an up and coming biotech firm in the valley. Operating in a secretive manner even for start-ups, the company has had its share of decent success in it's short run of less than ten years, but nothing to really write home about. Yet investment funding has never been a problem for the highly-confident executive, or his company.

Klein is a Stanford graduate who pursued both his Masters and PhD degrees at the Palo Alto university. Firmly entrenched in the valley think-tanks even as a student, Klein was always into pharmaceuticals. So, when he stayed on the west coast to start his own company as opposed to following the trail east, some were surprised. Andrew Klein had a plan, though. Now in his thirties, that plan is beginning to come to fruition.

The phone rings yet again, and this time the young CEO allows his annoyance to boil over.

"What the hell! Do you have any idea what fucking time it is?" he yells into the receiver of his cell phone, drawing a chuckle from his wife who is making her way back into slumberland.

"Why yes, Andrew, I do. I am quite aware of what _fucking_ time it is."

It has been two years since the two men last spoke. Sam Carlos doesn't make it a habit of sitting down for idle chit-chat or conversations. But Andrew Klein recognizes the voice immediately. More, he recognizes his mistake immediately.

"Sam. Sam, my apologies," he stumbles. He knows who Sam Carlos is, and what the man is capable of doing. And he has heard rumors. Dear God, the rumors.

"Sorry, Sam – you've never called me this time of night before," he tells his caller, now scrambling out of the bed, trying desperately to awaken and get his senses about himself.

"True. But you've never given me a fucking reason to call this time of night . . . _before_ ," Carlos tells him, pausing for a second and emphasizing the last word. He has thrown in the additional f-bomb for emphasis – to regain control of this conversation. His second use of profanity hits the right spot, unnerving the typically unflappable Klein.

At Stanford, Andrew Klein was the most ambitious man Sam Carlos had ever met, personally. Andrew was unlike most of the men Carlos knew. Klein was not motivated by fame or women or fortune. No, Andrew Klein preyed upon those that were. And though he is married now and quite well-off financially, Klein has never craved women (or men, for that matter), or money. He wants power. He craves it. He yearns for it. Power alone sustains the man.

Leverage over anyone was always something he looked for. In the classroom as he covertly wrote papers for other students and on the tree-clad campus fields where he provided students with substances of a different kind, Klein always kept a record of his transactions for leverage. Since those days, there have been a host – hundreds – of now successful men and women who owe something to Andrew Klein.

Yet the leverage he holds over so many pales in comparison to the influence Sam Carlos wields. Carlos' fingers reach everywhere – to cops, to congressmen, to criminals.

"I meant no disrespect, my friend," Klein whispers into the phone as he scrambles out of the bedroom. His change in demeanor is not lost on his wife, who is now wide awake. And she, too, knows the first name 'Sam' and what that could potentially mean.

"And I truly do not enjoy calling at such an ungodly hour, my friend," Carlos tells him, holding back a snicker. In truth, he has intentionally held off calling Klein for roughly an hour, as he had told Willie Crockett he would.

"And I will not keep you long," Carlos continues. "However, something has come to my attention. Something for which I must admit, I recognize your lofty fingerprints."

"Do tell," Klein asks, now wide awake. There are numerous products that NuGenetix has brought to the market and has in the research and development phases. Yet there is only one that would bring the attention of one Sam Carlos, and Klein immediately wonders how even the well-connected Carlos found out about it.

"Let me tell you a story," Carlos begins. If his old college friend wants to play games, then he will play the game. For a while.

"A certain pharmaceutical company – no, let me correct myself. A certain biotech company has developed a new drug. This drug is a secret pet project of the CEO. The market for this new drug, the clientele will only be the very, very rich. There is no interest in making this drug available to the masses. This drug is not yet ready for launch, because it is having side effects."

"An interesting story," Andrew Klein remarks, a small bead of perspiration now appearing atop his forehead.

"You're going to make me give you the next chapter?" Carlos asks, and there is a hint – just a hint – of the well-earned menace that has crept into his voice. It has the desired effect.

"Okay, it seems you already know anyway," Klein relents, "although I have no idea how. I need to review a few things in my company."

"It is my business to know these things, Andy," Carlos reminds him. "I know it has been a couple of years since we spoke, but I must say, you act as if you know nothing about me."

"What do you want to know?" Klein asks him. Cassandra Klein is now standing next to him outside their bedroom, wrapped in a short, sheer robe. There is an expression of concern on her face.

"Let's start with the side effects of our little resurrection pill," Carlos tells him, making sure he knows exactly what the pill is designed to do.

Her ear close to the phone, Cassandra has heard the last few seconds of the exchange and cannot suppress a gasp from her lips.

"Ah, and say hello to Cassy for me, Andy," Carlos throws in, knowing the impact these words will have.

Klein pauses for a moment, trying to get his thoughts together. Cassandra Klein squeezes his hand for support.

"The name of the project, and the drug is RSX3. It simulates death, as I am sure you are already aware," Klein begins. He pauses for a moment to see if Carlos will bite. Not even a nibble. He frowns, then continues.

"It simulates death just fine," Klein tells him. "I defy any doctor or paramedic who does not know what they are looking for to see beyond the veil, so to speak."

"But?" Carlos prods.

"But the problem is three-fold right now," Klein tells him.

"What is the first problem?" Carlos asks. "And be specific, as there is a very personal reason for my call, Andrew."

The use of his formal first name, instead of Andy, along with the admission of a personal interest causes a bit of a wobble in Andrew Klein's knees. Only his wife's tightening hand allows him to catch himself before falling. Cassy Klein rubs his shoulders for support with her free hand, helping him continue. Up until now, the little problems with project RSX3 were only a concern to the couple for investor reasons. Now, however, they have a very new and much deeper concern.

"The first problem is that the drug should keep someone in a state of simulated death for two and a half hours. That is enough time for paramedics to do whatever they need to do, and to get the body to the morgue. It is enough time for a visit from a grieving husband or wife or other loved one."

"Why?" is all Carlos asks. He knows the answer to this question already. He already knows what the drug does and who it is designed for, who the very limited market is. What he wants to know is how close they are to fixing the side effects, and why one Richard Castle has the drug in his system?

"The whole idea is that someone who is rich – and I don't mean our kind of rich, Sam. I mean rich beyond even our means. Someone who is rich in the billionaire space -"

"That's a small market, Andrew," Carlos interjects, still maintaining a formal stance with the CEO.

"Small, but lucrative, my friend," Klein responds, trying to bring a more friendly tone to the conversation.

"Think of someone with huge means, huge assets – but huge liabilities as well," Klein tells him. "A liability could be financial. It could be personal. These people want to start over. They don't want to commit murder. They don't want to embezzle. They already have far more than enough money. They just no longer wish to share that money – with their liabilities."

Unseen by Klein, Sam Carlos simply nods his head. All of this is in line with the information he already had. He has known about this little project for a number of months now. He just had no use for it, no need for it.

Until now.

"When we launch this – under the radar, without any FDA interference, the drug will simulate death for a person of great wealth. They will change their will many, many months in advance. Perhaps even a year in advance before we provide them with the drug. The change in will transfers the bulk of their wealth – upon their death – to a fictional person who exists only in the form of a social security number."

"Yes, I know," Carlos chuckles, and suddenly the blocks fall into place for Andrew Klein. Now he understands the most likely manner in which a Sam Carlos discovered this little project.

Yeah, part of the process with Project RSX3 involves the client changing his or her will to transfer much of their wealth to a fictional person . . . a fictional person whose identity they will assume upon their 'resurrection.' The fact that they will be creating social security numbers, creating new identities certainly requires involving some element of humanity that doesn't mind breaking a few laws.

Someone like Sam Carlos.

Carlos notices the quiet from the other end of the phone and puts two and two together as well.

"You see, Andy," he continues, now with a more friendly tone, "unbeknownst to you, you and I will be partners of sort in this little endeavor of yours. So please, continue."

"Yes . . . yes, certainly," Klein tells him, regaining a bit of his composure. Carlos smiles once again at the effectiveness of a post-midnight call in the night.

"The plan calls for the change in will to also call for the body to be cremated. The cremation will occur before an autopsy can be performed. This will be the result of a formal request from the significant other left behind – a request, of course, that the significant other will be completely unaware of. I suppose I will have you to thank for that as well, Sam?"

"You're quite welcome, in advance, my friend," Carlos chuckles on the other end.

"Once cremated – of course the body will never be cremated, but it allows the body to disappear long enough for the little resurrection and some plastic surgery to enable the client to begin a new life – complete with the bulk of their wealth."

"And how many times do you think this little ruse can be performed before someone in law enforcement starts piecing together all of these billionaires dying and their wealth transferred to complete strangers?"

Now it is Andrew Klein's turn to laugh.

"Do the math, Sam," he tells him. "A client is worth – hell, let's say ten billion dollars. He or she transfers half of this wealth to this fictional character. That's five billion dollars. And my fee is ten percent."

Sam Carlos whistles into the phone, doing the math in his head.

"Given there are less than two thousand billionaires on the planet," Carlos begins, "and your average take is five hundred million . . ."

Carlos pauses for another second or two, before continuing.

"I stand corrected, my friend," Carlos tells him, genuinely impressed. "You wouldn't need to have more than what . . . ten, twelve clients?"

"Spread out across three, four years," Klein finishes his thought. "Average on the low end, five hundred million times ten. That's five billion dollars. Enough for me to do something else in life, without having to beg, borrow and steal from greedy investor bastards who take twenty, thirty percent.

"Something else in life?" Carlos asks. Suddenly, the deviousness of the real plan of his old college friend comes into focus.

"Damn, Andrew," Carlos admires. "That takes some stones. You plan on disappearing."

"Cassy will get the bulk of our money and play the role of grieving widow for a few months before rumors and nasty news about her deceased husband come to light. News which will allow her to find solace and love in the arms of another man who appears in her life."

Carlos nods, again admiring the audacity of the plan – and immediately realizing that because of its audacious nature, it will work. No one will put it together. At least not in time. He smiles at the basics of the plan. A wealthy person simulates their death, only to resurrect with a new life – all past obligations eliminated. Previous spouses and family eliminated. Previous entanglements eliminated. A failsafe witness protection racket for the very wealthy . . . and for a very limited time.

"The problems, Andy," Carlos continues, bringing the conversation back to the topic at hand.

"Right, right," Klein agrees. "The first problem is that they aren't staying quote – dead – unquote – long enough. Right now, the resurrection occurs in roughly seventy-five to eighty minutes."

Check. This lines up with what Castle experienced, as Carlos purses his lips in anticipation.

"Second, its playing with the brain in ways we didn't foresee," Klein continues. "Memory problems. Deep-seated memory problems."

"Explain," Carlos requests, although he knows the answer to this also. He just needs a few blanks filled in.

"The memory problems are two-fold. Certain memories will cause a relapse. Cause the client, the patient to fall back into simulated death. But this time, they stay under longer."

"How much longer?" Carlos inquires.

"Fifteen, twenty minutes tops," Klein tells him. "In a way, it is good news, because we want them asleep longer. The problem is that to get them under longer, they have to die again. And each time they die, they have no memory of anything that has happened after their first simulated death."

"That's quite a large problem," Carlos snickers.

"Of course it is," Klein responds. "Once dead, they can't come back to life. Not in front of anyone. But each time they go back under, they stay under longer. And they remember nothing. It seems like it continues to add fifteen to twenty minutes each time."

"So, at that rate, five or six resurrections gets you to the three-hour point – which of course, is useless if they have to die that many times," Carlos speaks aloud.

"Yes, that has to be fixed," Klein agrees. "But no one has made it past two hours and ten minutes."

"What do you mean?" Carlos pushes, now a bit antsy himself. This is where he needed the conversation to go. "What happens after two hours and ten minutes."

"They don't wake up," Klein tells him.

"They die?" Carlos asks.

"No," Klein replies. "I didn't say they die. I said they don't wake up."

"So, they appear dead," Carlos adds, now figuring it out aloud.

"And they stay that way, appearing dead," Klein confirms. "And what do we do with someone who appears dead, Sam?"

"Damn, Andrew," Carlos responds, expelling a breath. "How many?"

"Seven," Klein tells him.

"Seven people buried alive," Carlos whistles.

"Yeah, that's a drag on things, for certain," Klein agrees.

"So, here is your problem, Andrew," Carlos continues, now ready to bring the conversation to a close. "Somehow, a friend of mine has been in contact with this drug. Not by his own choice. Now I am wondering two things – first, how he got it, and second – how to cure him."

"Well, that's the third problem," Klein interrupts. "Right now, the antidote is ineffective."

"Ineffective how?" Carlos asks, menace once again creeping into his voice. It does not go unnoticed.

"We are trying, Sam," Klein tells him. "I have just as many people working on the antidote as I have working the time angle."

"Ineffective how?" Carlos repeats. "Do not force me to ask again."

"It just doesn't work, Sam. Not yet. It doesn't stop the simulated deaths from repeating, and it doesn't impact the memory problems."

"That doesn't bode well for my friend," Carlos tells him.

"No, I am afraid it doesn't," Klein agrees.

"I am wondering how my friend was . . . contaminated with your little toy," Carlos continues.

"I have no idea, Sam," Klein tells him. But there is just enough hitch in his voice to alert the mobster. Just enough.

"We will be talking, Andrew," Carlos tells him. "Count on it."

"I am trying my –"

Before he can continue, Andrew Klein realizes he is talking to himself. Sam Carlos has hung up. He glances at his phone, confirming the call has ended.

"Dammit all to hell," he mutters to his wife.

In the car one block from his house, Sam Carlos leans back into the back seat of the limousine. Willie Crockett turns to face his boss.

"Well?" Crockett asks.

"We have a problem," Carlos replies quietly, gazing at the house in the hills some one hundred yards in the distance. "Andrew respects me. But he doesn't fear me."

He closes his eyes and expels a breath, before glancing back at his friend in the front seat.

"That needs to change," Carlos grins, bringing a smile to the face of Willie Crockett.


	8. Chapter 8

**Mannequins and Marionettes: Chapter 8**

 **.**

 **.**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

.

 _ **Sunday at 3:25 a.m., April 1, 2012, on Highway 101 North heading toward San Francisco**_

.

The highway is mostly empty at this hour in the morning, long before dawn. The dark blue Ferrari speeds northward from Santa Clara towards the city. After the troubling phone call with Sam Carlos, a now-frazzled Andrew Klein reviewed his options.

"There is only one person outside the test-case that I have shared a dosage with," he had reminded Cassandra Klein, his equally troubled wife, once Carlos had terminated their phone call. Neither even bothered to try to go back to sleep after that.

"I hate to be the one to say 'I told you so', but we both knew he could not be trusted," his wife had remarked.

"We made our bed. It's far too late to bail out now," he had told her. "You know that. You know how he is. Nothing sticks to him. Hell, half of who's who got nailed in that raid out at the island a couple of months ago, yet Barry comes out of even that without a scratch. Anyway, you know he has greased many a wheel for us."

"Be that as it may, obviously the bastard has broken protocol and used it on someone already – although for the life of me I can't understand why," Cassandra continues. "I mean, he knew it wasn't ready! He knew the side effects. You were very clear with him on that. I was there. I remember –"

"Babe," he had interrupted, "I think the fact that it wasn't ready is exactly why he wanted it in the first place," he had told her, with a shudder. "Clearly someone has gotten under his skin and he has chosen a truly sinister method of taking this person out."

"Who is it?" she had asked.

"I have no idea, but I am going to find out," he had responded. "Barry the Bastard is one thing. But Sam Carlos? No way we run afoul of him."

A phone call to the councilman was out of the question – who knows who is monitoring the phone conversations for the Councilman. There is no way he can allow this to get out.

"Are you sure you want to go there . . . now? At this hour?" Cassandra had asked him. His response had sent shivers down her spine.

"Babe, when Sam is on the prowl like this – and he said it was personal – which means Sam is even more dangerous . . . hell no I am not waiting until morning. I need answers now."

So now the young CEO finds himself zooming up the highway, approaching the downtown exits where he will zip over to the Embarcadero section where the councilman lives. He knows his team will find an antidote. His team is filled with some damn fine brilliant minds. Minds who don't know the real reason for his baby project. They will figure it out soon enough.

But that's the problem. Soon enough might not be soon enough for Carlos. So, the councilman is going to have to tell him who is 'tested' with the sample drug and why. Knowing that might give him a bit of leverage with Carlos, and it might not. Right now, Andrew Klein is just pissed. He's had to send a note cancelling the morning investor meeting – never a good idea – but one has to have priorities.

He stops at the stoplight at Market Street, having exited off the freeway a couple of minutes ago. Making a right turn, he floors the sports car, heading toward the Embarcadero district, never seeing the dark sedan that has been following him for the past hour or so since he left Santa Clara. Inside the sedan, a large black man smiles, his trademark toothpick dangling from his lips.

"Where exactly are you going, Mr. CEO," he mumbles to himself. He is following some seventy-five yards behind when he notices Klein making a left turn on Folsom Street. Suddenly, the likely destination comes into focus for Willie Crockett. There is one person in particular that lives in the Embarcadero Lofts.

"Oh, this is rich," he smiles to himself. "Sam has just been looking for a reason to engage with you, my friend," he says aloud, anticipating a long-delayed encounter between his boss and the up-and-coming City Councilman up the street.

A minute later, as Klein pulls into a parking spot along the street, Crockett easily passes by the parked car, his darkened windows protecting him from view. He glances in his rear-view mirror, satisfied when he sees the CEO exit the car and head toward the building.

"Yeah, this one has been long overdue," he smiles to himself once again as he pulls up the contact information to dial his boss and bring him up to speed on the morning's developments. As usual, one ring is all he gets.

"You're not gonna believe this, but you're gonna like it, sir," he tells his boss and friend.

"Do tell, my friend," Sam Carlos replies, glancing at his watch from the fourth floor of the building just outside Chinatown. "Worth me driving myself back to the city, I hope."

"Oh, yeah . . . worth every minute, I promise you," Crockett replies.

.

 _ **Sunday at 3:48 a.m., April 1, 2012, at the San Francisco Chinese Hospital outside Chinatown**_

.

Richard Castle is restless. It has been almost two hours since his most recent resurrection. In each instance, he has no memory of his 'death' or resurrection. Either of them. The last memory he has takes him back to the house in Chinatown where he and Kate Beckett encountered – among other things – a fortune teller who seemingly has launched him into this latest adventure.

Restless, on the other hand, doesn't describe Kate Beckett. She is beyond exhausted, walking on dead legs. It has been almost twenty-four hours since she has slept. She's done all-nighters before. Just not like this. She has been awake and burdened with two 'deaths' and resurrections now, and while Richard Castle awakens brisk and well-rested, if a bit nauseous, she is in desperate need of sleep.

The problem, of course, is Castle. She doesn't want to go to sleep and wake up to a 'dead husband' again.

"You need to rest," he tells her, obvious concern in his eyes. He is alert and wide awake, having been wheeled into this patient room on the third floor roughly thirty minutes ago after an hour and a half of constant tests, ranging from blood draws to CT scans, to X-rays . . . what they hope to learn from a simple X-ray having escaped him.

"Not happening babe," she replies. "You know I can't."

"Actually, I don't know a lot, right now," he tells her testily. "My mind . . . my memories . . . I can't be sure about anything right now."

He runs a large hand through his hair, exhaling loudly. Sitting up straighter in the bed, he glances over at Tao Yuan, who is busy reviewing the numbers on the monitor above Castle's bed.

"How am I doing?" he asks the Chinese man.

"Annoyingly alive."

"Seems you have made your usual wonderful first impression," Kate chuckles, suppressing a yawn, which gains her a wistful smile from the patient in the bed. Tao Yuan simply continues tracking numbers, making notes, occasionally grunting something under his breath.

Alexis Castle is in the corner of the patient room where her father has been moved. She lies on a rollaway cot that was brought in for her, sleeping soundly, secure in the knowledge that her father is alive. No, he's far from well, but after the night they have had, she will take alive, thank you very much.

"So . . . what now?" Castle asks the room at large.

"We continue waiting," Tao Yuan replies, not looking up from his work. "While those in the lab downstairs try to discover exactly what it is that afflicts you, Mr. Castle."

He nods his head, in acceptance if not agreement, then turns his attentions back to the woman he loves who sits next to him. Bleary-eyed and ready to drop, she focuses, nonetheless, on the small paper tablet in her hands, writing notes and crossing items out. He notices everything about her. The lips pursed in concentration, the eyes glistening from tears and just being tired.

"What are you so busy with?" he asks, straining his neck to see what she is writing.

"Just thoughts . . . observations," she replies. Her mind takes her back to the conversation a couple of hours ago with one Sam Carlos. She has been rewinding and replaying the minutes before both of Richard Castle's apparent lapses into simulated death. Carlos has told her that something . . . words, memories . . . something is triggering these relapses.

"Care to share?" he asks, smiling at his little rhyme. It is not much, but right now he will take any levity the universe throws to them.

"Not yet, babe," she tells him, immediately seeing the frown on his face. Sure, they have a history of secrets. Secrets that almost destroyed what they are now building. But it has been months now since she moved out here, since she moved beyond those old days. But history is history, and she can tell where his conflicted mind is going.

"I had a conversation with Sam Carlos," she tells him, leaning in towards him and lowering her voice so that the tall orderly cannot hear.

"I know," he nods, recalling her conversation on the phone right before he was wheeled out of the morgue room for tests.

"He mentioned something," she continues. "And if he is right, then I have to watch what I say, babe. Because if he is right, this is going to happen to you again. And it will be triggered by something you or I say. And when you wake up –"

She pauses, glancing away for a second. He finishes her thought.

"I won't remember a thing."

"No, you won't," she confirms.

"So you are writing down things that happened, things that obviously I don't remember," he realizes out loud.

"Yes," she answers, touching his hand with hers. "And for now, just trust me when I say that it has to stay that way, Rick. Because I don't want you falling out on me again."

"You think it will happen again?" he asks. Truth be told, Dr. Chen has already warned him that it is possible, if not likely, that it will happen again. The good doctor, however, is unaware of the fact that each episode will bring him closer to an end that haunts even the staunchest horror fan.

"When I was on the phone with Sam, it was very obvious that he seems to know what is happening to you," she tells him. "Your symptoms were no surprise to him. And although he didn't come out and say it, he didn't seem surprised that you had – quote unquote – died and come back on two different occasions."

 _Richard Castle simply nods his head, marveling that – in this instance – he gives more credibility about_ the medical battle going on in his body to a mobster than the doctors in charge here.

"Did he seem . . . overly concerned?" he asks, the fear in his voice barely coming through. She can't blame him. She is scared, too.

"Honestly no," she tells him, as much for her own relief as his. "He seemed more . . . curious than anything else."

"Sounds like Sam," he muses aloud.

"Doesn't it," she agrees, her attention falling back to the tablet in her hands and the notes she has been taking. The reference to Abraham Lincoln triggered the first event, she is relatively certain of it now. And from Sam's observation that gunshots are involved as some type of trigger, her mind has finally connected the dots to the second instance.

" _Nothing compares to watching the woman you love take a bullet,"_ she remembers him saying earlier. Minutes later, as he attempted to stand up, he collapsed.

" _And he clutched his chest, as if being shot,"_ she remembers to herself, circling the memory she has jotted down.

No, she cannot say anything to Richard Castle about this revelation. At heart, he is a writer. A man of words. There is no way she can tell him this and the man not become consumed by the events of her shooting. Worse, knowing him, that is a memory he likely more than occasionally thinks about – whether he mentions it to her or not. And now she is wondering if just thinking about it will trigger another relapse.

" _A no-win situation,"_ she realizes sadly, now wondering exactly what is store for them as she recognizes she has absolutely no control over this. Her thoughts are interrupted by the door to Castle's room opening.

"Ah, you're still here," Dr. Teresa Argento comments aloud.

"Where else would I be?" Kate replies. She briefly wonders why the Chief of Staff of the hospital would be here, then just as quickly chastises herself. Of course the woman would be here. This is probably one of the patient cases of a career in front of her.

"Point," the doctor acknowledges. "Can I see you for a moment outside, please?" she asks.

Kate glances at Castle, lying in bed who simply nods in affirmation as he turns his head and closes his eyes.

She rises up from her chair, the movement slowly her considerably as she fights against the growing ache throughout her body.

"Again, you need to get some rest, babe," she hears Richard Castle tell her. She glances back at him. His eyes remain closed and his head turned away.

"I will, I promise," she tells him, knowing that he is right. She moves slowly to the doorway where Dr. Argento moves sideways, to let her outside. The doctor closes the door behind them and starts walking down the hallway.

"I had another conversation with a . . . colleague of mine," she begins. Kate interrupts her.

"If the colleague is Sam Carlos, then just talk openly, doctor," Kate tells her, having noticed the hesitation between words.

"Fair enough," the Chief of Staff nods. "Mr. Carlos asked me to pass on some information to you.

"Curious that he wouldn't call me himself," Kate mentions out loud.

"I thought the same thing," the doctor admits, "Given that he asked me to hand the phone to you earlier tonight . . . or rather, earlier this morning."

"Yeah, it does seem to run together," Kate agreed.

"Something I suspect you are not unaccustomed to," the doctor adds as the two women continue walking, approaching the elevator.

"Previous life," Kate smiles.

"No such thing," Dr. Argento banters back, as the two women share a smile. "He asked me to tell you that there might be another relapse for Mr. Castle. In fact, he seemed all but certain another episode is imminent."

"Dr. Chen felt the same," Kate tells her as she watches the doctor punch the up arrow. The two women are quiet for a few seconds as they wait for the elevator. Seconds later, they hear the familiar ding and the doors open. They enter the elevator car, and Kate watches with curiosity as the doctor punches the fourth floor. She wonders where they are headed, as the cafeteria is downstairs. As is the morgue and the lab.

"Dr. Chen feels that way because I have told her," Argento comments as they elevator car descends. She eyes Kate closely until the ex-detective indicates her understanding.

"Understood," Kate replies as the door opens. The women exit and Kate follows the doctor, realizing that they are likely headed to her office.

"Dr. Chen is a good doctor," Argento tells her, "but she is out of the loop on the backroom dealings happening here. You, on the other hand, are not."

"What else did Sam have to say?" Kate asks. "Did he seem concerned?"

The words of Sam Carlos come back to her as the Chief of Staff answers Kate Beckett as honestly as she can.

" _Katherine Beckett is an old friend. The kind I do not have many of. Do not lie to her, Teresa."_

"Yes, he was concerned," Argento tells her. The sudden flash of fear in the eyes of the woman in front of her is quickly masked with a face of determination. Dr. Argento notes that once again, her benefactor is spot on with his assessment of people.

"He instructed me to be forthcoming with you," Argento continues. "Which says something in itself," she almost comments under her breath.

"Did he say why he was concerned?" Kate asks, not sure that she is ready for what is coming, whatever it might be.

"He indicated that these episodes your friend is having are going to continue," Argento responds. "And each time they occur, they will get worse."

"What do you –"

"By worse," Argento interrupts, "I mean the episode will last longer. By fifteen, twenty minutes each time. And the memory problems will continue."

"This is going to happen again, and when it does it will last longer," Kate repeats out loud. Shaking her head, she looks beyond tonight into the future.

"That can't be good," Kate continues. "I mean, how many times can the body take that?"

"Not as many as we would need, I am afraid," the doctor tells her, as the two women continue down the hallway toward the Chief of Staff's office.

"Mr. Castle has a few more relapses in him. Eventually he will relapse and not come back," Argento tells her – again, not mincing words.

"What do you mean he won't come back?" Kate asks, the alarm evident in her voice. "Why wouldn't –"

"He will stay suspended," Argento tells her.

"He will die?" Kate asks.

"That's not what I said, Miss Beckett," the doctor replies. "I said he will stay suspended."

"Then we have to prevent him from relapsing," Kate states defiantly, but as the words come out of her mouth, she sees the futility. "Of course, we can't prevent that because we don't know what it is that will send him under."

"And that is our current dilemma," Argento agrees, opening the door to her office, ushering Kate inside.

"So . . . what do we do?" Kate asks, almost exasperated now.

"We must sedate our friend," Sam Carlos replies, rising from the chair where he sits.


	9. Chapter 9

**Mannequins and Marionettes: Chapter 9**

 **.**

 **.**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

.

 _ **Sunday at 4:01 a.m., April 1, 2012, at the San Francisco Chinese Hospital outside Chinatown**_

.

Kate Beckett walks toward her old friend, her normally long strides shortened by exhaustion. Sam Carlos greets her with a broad smile and open arms. Their embrace takes Dr. Teresa Argento aback. She has rarely – no, scratch that. She has _never_ seen such a genuine personal encounter between Sam Carlos and . . . well, anyone.

"I guess I shouldn't be surprised to see you," Kate tells him as they break their hug.

"I told you I would see you later this morning," he reminds her with a smirk. She simply nods in agreement.

"True, but I didn't realize that meant . . . never mind, it's not important," she decides. "What _is_ important is that you are here. Now, exactly what do you mean when you say we have to sedate him?" Kate asks her friend.

"You're an intelligent woman, Katie," he replies affably. "You know exactly what sedate means."

Dr. Argento watches the interaction between the two obvious close friends with increasing interest as she moves to sit behind her desk. She will give them their privacy for the moment. But she, too, has questions.

"Why?" Kate asks.

"Perhaps you should sit, along with Dr. Argento," he tells her, as he straightens the collar on his suit jacket, taking a deep breath.

"I'm good right here, Sam," she counters. "Just tell me –"

"Katie," he interrupts. "Please. You need to sit down for this, my friend."

Something about his tone, about the unnatural concern in his voice, causes her to pause. Reluctantly, she nods her head and sits in the chair he has just vacated, in front of Dr. Argento's desk. Just sitting once again causes another layer of energy to leave her body. The lack of sleep, the sheer exhaustion is starting to take over. She runs her hands through her hair, exhaling a long breath. She knows she needs sleep in the worst way. She also knows she has no time for sleep.

"It's going to be that bad, eh?" she mumbles aloud, staring up at her friend who stands next to her.

"Well, it's not a pretty picture," he admits. "At least not yet. In time it will get better. The problem is that we are running out of time."

"How so?" Kate asks, glancing back and forth between the Chief of Staff who sits at her desk, and the tall man beside her. She can read nothing on the impassive face of the hospital chief.

"In a nutshell, here is what I know," he begins. "And for the moment, just let me tell you this story so that you can –"

"Oh God, another storyteller in my life," Kate half smiles with a roll of her eyes.

"I won't dare claim to be nearly as proficient as our friend downstairs," Carlos tells her, "but the important thing is the story, not the storyteller."

He waits for an acknowledging nod. Not getting one, he continues unabated.

"Mr. Castle is suffering from . . . before I begin," he pauses, glancing at Dr. Argento.

"Before I begin," he repeats, "I am sure that we understand that what I am about to say does not leave this room. Were that to happen, I cannot tell you how displeased I would be."

Kate Beckett has been staring at the Chief of Staff during this short monologue, and her still resident perp-in-the-box training catches the very quick flash of concern in the doctor's eyes. She barely contains a shudder that fights to break free. Turning quickly, she glances up at her friend who holds his gaze on the doctor. But it is the smile on his face that finally unnerves the ex-detective, as she gets her first real glimpse of what she will later refer to as 'the Carlos factor.'

Before she can react, the smile is gone, the gaze is broken and now a more serious face now holds her eyes as he continues.

"Our friend downstairs is suffering from the effects of a powerful and quite insidious drug, manufactured by a . . . by an old acquaintance of mine," he tells them.

"This drug simulates death. The reasons for the existence of this drug are not mine to disclose," he remarks, glancing at both women. Getting dual nodding heads, he continues.

"However, the side effects of this drug are absolutely my business . . . and yours, Katie," he tells Kate Beckett. "What Mr. Castle downstairs is going through is a direct result of these side effects. Namely, once dosed with this drug, the episodes repeat themselves. Continuously. Without warning. But triggered by memories."

"You mentioned that to me earlier, Sam," Kate interrupts. "Can you elaborate at all?"

"Of course," he tells her, his face serious. "Certain memories we have . . . that Mr. Castle downstairs has, are triggered by words we speak, by phrases we hear, by images we see. Just the mention of such things triggers a repeat episode. This is important, because it limits how we can stop this."

"I can't exactly tell Rick not to think about certain things," Kate agrees sadly.

"Of course not," Sam confirms. "You tell a running back not to fumble, he will go out and fumble. You tell a basketball player not to travel, and . . . well, you get the idea. You get something in your head and it's too late."

"And multiply it by one hundred and you have Rick's mentality," Kate almost laughs. "Tell Rick not to think about something and that's all he will think about, talk about . . ."

"And hold on to that thought, Katie, because it goes to why I said we will need to sedate him," Carlos adds. "Each episode, each time he collapses, the episode will last somewhere between fifteen and twenty minutes longer. Each time."

"Why would anyone want a drug that would –"

"Not now, Dr. Argento," Sam interrupts, glancing at the Chief of Staff. "What is important . . . what is relevant for our friend downstairs is that these episodes will continue, based upon triggers. What is important is that each episode is longer – by fifteen to twenty minutes. What is important is that test subjects who have been given this drug have had multiple episodes, five or six times before they reach the two hour and ten-minute mark."

He allows a few seconds of silence to reign before Kate Beckett asks the question.

"What happened at the two hour and ten-minute mark, Sam?" she asks.

"They didn't wake up," he replies.

Kate simply stares at him for a few seconds. Mentally, Sam counts off the seconds in his head, and he gets to three when Kate's hand slaps across her mouth, her eyes widening as she comprehends what was just said.

"They didn't die," she asks, her voice soft.

"No, Kate," he answers quickly.

"They just . . . they stayed suspended?" Dr. Argento asks. The concern is clearly evident on her face as well.

"Yes, Teresa," Carlos replies.

"That's what will happen to Rick," Kate whispers.

"That's what will happen to Rick," he agrees. He doesn't smile. He doesn't frown. There is no expression on his face whatsoever. This is intentional, as he needs for her to get this. He does not want to soften this for her.

"He will stay . . . suspended," Kate repeats.

"Yes," Sam answers her.

"For how long?" she asks, already dreading the answer.

"Forever," Sam tells her, again with no expression. She needs to understand the seriousness of this. He knows she is not going to want Richard Castle sedated. Anything can happen under extended sedation periods. She knows this.

"Surely there is an antidote of some type," she offers, hoping more than anything else.

"Working on it," he replies, "but not effective yet."

She simply hangs her head in her hands. She wants to scream. She wants to cry. She wants to do many things. But all of those reactions can wait. There will time enough for them later. Right now, time isn't something Richard Castle has a lot of. So, she pushes these thoughts to the background. The great compartmentalizing capabilities she has always had that used to drive him crazy are now her biggest asset.

"He's not going to like this," she speaks aloud after a few seconds of silence. She knows Castle. He will take sedation as giving up. Hell, she considers it giving up. That's why she is fighting against it, even now.

"This isn't about what Richard Castle likes, or wants," Sam tells her. He reaches across the front of the table, grabbing the second chair that sits there. He places the chair directly in front of Kate, and then pulls his tall frame into the small chair. Placing his hands on her knees, he stares deeply into her eyes. He doesn't like telling her this.

"Listen to me, Katie," he continues. "I need to you understand this. Completely and unemotionally."

He pauses. Whether it is for effect, or just to gather his thoughts, neither the doctor nor the ex-detective can tell. After a few seconds, he continues. For emphasis, he counts off numbers as he raises a finger for each number.

"One." His forefinger rises.

"Two." His middle finger forms the second number.

"Three." His third finger rises.

"Four." Up comes his pinky. He places his hand with four fingers emphasized directly in Kate's face.

"Four episodes. Safely, that is what Richard has left," he tells her. "After that, it is cancel Christmas, Katie. Period. End of story. Do not pass go. Are you getting me?"

She nods her head and opens her mouth to speak. He shuts her down.

"Two episodes. Less than three hours. That is what has happened to Richard so far," he now reminds her. "I know you, Katie. You're thinking about time, calculating how many days he might have. You're thinking of how to stretch that into weeks. You are deluding yourself. Screw days. You need to think in terms of _hours_ , Katie. How many more episodes is he going to have in the next few _hours_. Without knowing it, you have triggered two episodes in three hours. You can't tell him what causes them, because that's all he will think about. And that wastes relapses that we don't have . . . that he doesn't have."

"Sam," Kate begins. However, Dr. Argento rises to her feet, interrupting Kate's thoughts.

"Mr. Castle doesn't have another day in him, Miss Beckett," she tells her. "Sam is right. The smartest thing we can do is sedate him. Put him under. Wait for a working antidote."

Kate simply puts her head back into her hands. For now, that is the safest place for her, as the tears finally begin to fall.

.

 _ **Sunday – about the same time – at approximately 4:07 a.m., April 1, 2012, at the Embarcadero Lofts in San Francisco**_

.

Andrew Klein is fuming now. He has been waiting for the past five or six minutes for the City Councilman to come downstairs. Knowing the surveillance in the building, and knowing the councilman doesn't want to have to explain why a silicon valley CEO is visiting him at four in the morning – it just made more sense to the tell the politician to come downstairs and across the street down half a block from the entrance.

The long drive from Santa Clara has given Klein much to think about. Too much, in fact. There are so many potential explanations for why Barry Adams would have used the single dosage he was given on someone else, and none of the explanations bring comfort to the CEO.

"About damn time," he mumbles under his breath as he sees Adams making his way toward the car in his rear-view mirror. Seconds later, the passenger door opens and an equally perturbed city councilman slides into the car.

"This better be – what the hell Andy!" he exclaims as the sports car pulls away from the curb violently before Adams can even finish closing the door.

"Shut up, Mr. Councilman," Klein warns, with a quick angry side-glance. "I'm the one who had to drive an hour up the highway . . . and because of you!"

"What are you talking about, Andy?" Adams asks, quickly gripping the side of the door with his left hand as they take a hard turn. "And slow the hell down, man, you're going to get us killed."

"No . . . _you're_ going to get us killed, dammit," Klein spits angrily, his eyes now not leaving the road in front of them as he drives.

"I just had a conversation – roughly a couple of hours ago – roused me out of a good sleep and forced me to cancel an important investor meeting," he continues. "It seems that the dose of RSX3 that I gave you . . . you remember . . . the one I told you to be very careful with . . . it seems you ignored that warning. And now we both are in trouble."

"Slow down, slow down," Adams tells him. "Start from the beginning. What do you mean we are in trouble? Who called you? Who knows –"

"I got a call from Mr. Sam Carlos, Barry," Klein replies. He says no more. No other words are necessary. It is a good three to four seconds before Adams responds.

"Oh," the Councilman mumbles.

"Yeah," Klein repeats, with sarcasm clearly dripping from the single word. "Oh. That's all you have to say about the most dangerous fucking man on the west coast calling me in the middle of the night to question why a friend of his has been drugged with the only fucking dose I handed out . . . that would be to you, Barry!"

"Now wait a second, my friend," Adams begins, but the CEO cuts him short.

"Cut the political posturing bullshit, Barry," Klein yells, his voice rising in the small car. "There is no 'wait a second' when it comes to Carlos. You know this. Now you tell me – what have you done? Who did you give my drug to? And why? I told you it wasn't ready. I told you about the side effects."

There is silence in the car for a few more seconds before Klein continues, realization dawning on him.

"You did this on purpose to someone," he hisses. "My God, Barry, what kind of bastard are you?! Who pissed you off so horribly that you would dose someone with this and condemn them to . . . to that kind of death."

"Well, as you well know, it isn't really a death, per se," Adams smiles. He actually smiles, as he thinks of what his plan has done. The smile fades quickly, however, as he considers Sam Carlos. Bringing the mobster into the fray was not part of the plan. In fact, every plan that Barry Adams – either as Councilman Adams or the mysterious Donovan – has always been carefully executed without drawing the attention of one Sam Carlos. So, he clearly understands the concern of Andrew Klein.

" _How in the world would Carlos and Castle be friends in the first place?"_ Adams wonders silently to himself, before continuing.

"That said, you are right to be concerned about Carlos. As am I," Adams continues. "But we don't know what he knows yet, so –"

"Are you as deaf as you are stupid?" Klein argues angrily. "I just told you that Carlos called me, told me he knows about my drug, knows the side effects of the drug, and knows that it somehow got into a friend of his."

Adams takes notice of the fact that this is twice now that Klein has referred to Castle as 'a friend', and not by name.

"Did he say the name of this so-called friend?" Adams asks.

"No, he didn't," Klein replies. "It doesn't matter. The fact that _he_ knows who it is is what is important. Now _I_ need to know as well. Who is it, Barry?"

Adams thinks for a moment as the lighted streets of the Embarcadero pass by. There is no way he can tell Andrew Klein that Richard Castle, ex-author and current philanthropist has become the bane of his existence. Andrew can never know that it was Castle and his friends who brought to light and dismantled his pet project out at Angel Island. Andrew can never know that it was his crew – the crew of Barry Adams, nee Donovan, that were ruthlessly killed out at the Castle's complex. Yeah, Barry Adams has plenty of reasons to hate Richard Castle. And Andrew cannot find out about this. It opens too many doors that have too many questions.

Right now, the Councilman has a two-fold plan in place being executed against the ex-author. First, there are the macabre killings he is orchestrating that are designed to put Castle's little complex in a bad light with the public. And second, there is the matter of Castle himself. It's not enough to get rid of the author. He wants to hurt Richard Castle where it hurts most. Out at his little playground in Sausalito.

"Andrew, I am sorry – I cannot say at this time," Barry begins. He heads off the explosion he knows is coming with his next words.

"And think about this, Andrew," he continues. "It is better that you do not know. It is better that it does not appear to Sam Carlos that you were ever a part of this."

"You don't understand, Barry –" Klein begins. Adams cuts him off.

"No, _you_ don't understand, Andrew," he tells him as they pull up and stop at the light at Embarcadero and Bay Street, across from Pier 33.

"Carlos knows this is your drug, yes. But do you really want him to think . . . to even suspect that you know who it was used on. If this is a friend of his? All you need to do is to keep him at bay. You didn't drug anyone. He will not hold you accountable. What is important is that he never knows that it was me who has harmed his friend. You must keep this information from him? He will never – ever – believe that you were not a part of it."

In truth, Adams knows that it is in Klein's best interest to know the identity of the victim, but for now, this is leverage that he has, that he can use to his own advantage. It is a chip he is not willing to give up just yet.

"Trust me, Andrew," he continues. "As long as you can honestly tell Carlos you don't know what happened –"

His words are halted by the large black car that noisily pulls up to the stop light alongside them, with the driver's side window rolled down. The look of terror on the face of both men as they see the clearly visible black face with the trademark dangling toothpick is one that Willie Crockett will enjoy remembering for quite some time.

Once he had informed Carlos of the identity of the man Andrew Klein was visiting, Carlos had been very clear in his instructions.

" _Wait outside and make sure that Klein sees you, Willie," Carlos had told him. "And if, for some reason, they decide to take their conversation outside, make sure both men see you. This is very important, Willie. This is guerilla warfare. The type neither of these men are prepared to fight."_

"Dear God, Almighty," Klein speaks aloud. Adams can barely even grunt a response as both men watch Willie Crockett point two fingers at them both, making the sign of a pistol firing. He rolls the window up and guns the large black vehicle through the red light, laughing at the chaos he has just left behind him.


	10. Chapter 10

**Mannequins and Marionettes: Chapter 10**

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 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

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 _ **Sunday – 4:15 a.m., April 1, 2012, on the Embarcadero near Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco**_

.

The silence in the small sports car is almost comical at this point, as both men sit in their respective seats, mouths open but no words forthcoming. Both eyes are trained on the rapidly departing black vehicle accelerating away from them.

Another second passes before Andrew Klein finds his words.

"Well, he knows about you, now," he half chuckles.

"You see something funny about all of this?" Councilman Adams angrily retorts. He is seeing carefully laid plans blow up in his face. And with Carlos, that's the least of his problems.

"Actually, kinda yeah," Klein responds. "A few seconds ago, you were confidently espousing why I should not be all that concerned."

He turns to face his passenger, as he continues.

"Now, all of the sudden with the shoe on the other foot, I suspect you are singing a very different tune," Klein tells him.

"Do you know what this means, Andrew?" the councilman asks, undeterred with fear now evident in his eyes.

" _I_ knew what this meant long before Sam Carlos' right hand man shot us his gun finger, Barry," Klein answers, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead that has appeared within seconds. "Like it or not, we are in this together."

The men are silent for a few seconds as Klein now accelerates through the just-turned-green stoplight. Both men are lost in their own thoughts as Klein turns the car back towards the Lofts to drop his passenger off.

"So . . . I will ask you again," Klein begins, his voice calmer now. "Who is the poor victim you have dosed with my drug?"

Adams stares out the window for a few seconds, watching the early morning city pass by. Soon the rush hour traffic will appear with the rising sun, heralding another day. He takes a deep breath. Yeah, things have changed now. In a split second, leverage has been lost. Klein is right. They need each other now, more than ever.

"Richard Castle," he states simply.

It takes a count of two for recognition to land with the Silicon Valley CEO. The irony is almost too much for him as his hand begins shaking on the wheel.

Just last week, he has met with Richard Castle. Last fall he was one of many Silicon Valley executives who invested in the vision that Castle laid out for his little project saving battered women in Sausalito. Now, truth be told, Andrew Klein couldn't give a rat's ass about those women or their stories. For him, this was a chance – out of the boardrooms and away from the competitive landscape – to meet and visit with other wealthy executives. Wealthy executives who, in the next two or three years, could become customers of his.

In fact, one executive in particular has already had two dinners with Andrew and Cassandra Klein. This executive, along with her husband, seemed to be the prototypical customer Klein is looking for; young, wildly rich, and deeply indebted to investors. The trifecta perfect storm for his little drug.

Last week he had received an update from Castle – an update delivered at the St. Francis Hotel down in Union Square here in the city. There, roughly twenty valley executives and their significant others were in attendance in the small room where Castle and his entourage presented the current status of the project.

His eyes widen in alarm as possibilities begin to dawn on him. He had met one-on-one with Castle, sharing a drink with the ex-author after the meeting in the lobby bar area. Cassandra had hit it off nicely with Castle's girlfriend, who had looked vaguely familiar to Andrew. She told him – afterwards – the long history between the two and how – only recently – have they become more than friends.

She also had told him that one Kate Beckett actually went to school out in the Bay Area. At Stanford. Recognition kicked in immediately, as Andrew Klein realized that he knows . . . rather, knew Kate Beckett back in school. It never occurred to him – during his recollections with Cassandra – that Kate Beckett might have known Carlos.

He laughs to himself now, as he starts putting two and two together, and – God help him – not liking the answer.

Kate Beckett didn't just know Sam Carlos. Kate Beckett and Sam Carlos were close friends. Damn close friends. They hung out in the same circles, ran with the same people.

"Oh shit," he mutters aloud.

"What now?" Councilman Adams asks, rubbing a hand through his hair. How could this night . . . morning . . . get any worse?

"You said you have dosed Richard Castle," Klein replies, breathing slowly to try and control the anger ready to explode inside him. He doesn't wait for an answer, but instead, pushes forward.

"I told you that Sam Carlos said that it was a friend who was dosed," Klein continues. "And do you want to know how Richard Castle and Sam Carlos became friends, Barry?"

Adams is staring at the CEO now, and an involuntary shudder shakes deep inside his belly. He knows he is not going to like this answer.

"Castle's girlfriend," Klein tells him. "She and Carlos go back. Way back. As in college days back. Before Sam became . . . well, Sam. And if you have hurt her boyfriend . . . then you have hurt her."

The two men drive in silence, and Klein would almost laugh at the variation of facial expressions overtaking the city councilman. He shakes his head, as he delivers the final nail.

"You've heard what happens to people who even _barely_ hurt a friend of Sam Carlos, haven't you, Barry."

It isn't a question. It's a declaration. Suddenly, things seem much, much darker for the city councilman.

.

 _ **Sunday at 4:17 a.m., April 1, 2012, at the San Francisco Chinese Hospital outside Chinatown**_

.

Sam Carlos sits across from Kate Beckett, their knees touching, as he offers the ex-detective a tissue. Dr. Teresa Argento had reached into the box of tissues on her desk, handing a tissue to her mentor. With a nod of the head, he had thanks the doctor, as he refocuses his attention on the woman across from him.

"I am sorry, Katie," he begins. "There really was no better way to do this. Tear the band-aid off, you used to always tell me."

Through muffled sniffles, Kate Beckett laughs out loud, recalling the numerous times she has used those very words with the man across from her, in their much younger days.

"I wish there were another way," Carlos continues. "But I promise you, this is the best alternative for our friend downstairs."

Suddenly, his eyes darken, and for not the first time, Kate Beckett stifles a shudder at just a gaze from this man.

"But I promise you something else, Kate," he continues. Dr. Teresa Argento would swear on a stack of bibles that his voice literally dropped an octave.

"I know who has done this to our friend," he tells her, which causes the expected response. He knows Kate Beckett. He knows what she has lived through, and how she has responded to such adversity. He knows how she will respond to this.

"And I promise you . . . I . . . you and I . . . at the proper time, once we have our antidote . . . you and I are going to serve retribution to these people," he tells her. His words explode a thousand cocoons of butterflies deep inside the stomach of the Chief of Staff. She knows what this means. She hasn't heard about Sam Carlos, by reputation. No, Dr. Argento has seen – firsthand – the consequences of crossing this man.

"Yes, we are," Kate Beckett replies, a new fire burning inside her. She has had enough of standing on the sidelines, waiting.

"But for now," he continues, and his eyes soften if that were possible. "For now, let's take care of our friend." It's as if he is reading her mind. Damn him, he knows her as well as she knows herself.

"I am asking you to wait just a little longer," he tells her, now standing to his feet. "You are going to want to be with Mr. Castle. You are going to –"

The ringing telephone interrupts him, startling Kate in the process as well. Dr. Argento glances at the caller ID on her desk phone and frowns. There is only one reason they would be calling her from downstairs.

In Richard Castle's room.

She hesitates for a second, then answers the phone by clicking on the speaker button. She suspects this is something everyone in her office will want to hear.

" _Please no,"_ she silently prays before speaking.

"This is Dr. Argento," she answers.

"Dr. Argento, this is Dr. Chen downstairs. We have a problem."

"What kind of problem, Dr. Chen?" Sam Carlos asks, the menace now creeping into his voice.

"Mr. Castle," she replies. "He is in suspension once again."

"Thank you, Dr. Chen," Dr. Argento replies. "I will be right down."

Sam Carlos extends a hand to Kate Beckett. He smiles inwardly. A normal person would be at the point of exasperation with the news they have just heard. But he notices that Kate Beckett is not sad. She is not frustrated. She's not even angry.

No, she is pissed. That is good. He needs her pissed. He can use her pissed off. Sad, frustrated . . . he has no use for her.

Pissed off? Yeah, he can use this.

"Mr. Castle's daughter is going to need you right now, Kate," he reminds her. Immediately she nods her head in agreement. She is in a different mode now. Once again, he marvels at her ability to compartmentalize her feelings. He knows the anger is driving much of this.

"You accompany Dr. Argento downstairs," he continues. "Dr. Argento – when Mr. Castle wakes up, I would ask that you and Kate have a discussion with him. Be honest. Tell him what is happening."

He turns to Kate, addressing her directly.

"As we have discussed, Katie, do not tell him what you suspect might be triggering these lapses. Simply let him know that it is going to happen again. And we need to put him under, until we get an antidode."

With that, the San Francisco mobster turns and heads to the door, leaving the two women behind.

"I will be in touch, Katie," he tells her before opening the door and letting himself out. Immediately, he reaches inside his pocket, pulling his phone out. One touch of a button dials his right-hand man, who answers on the second ring.

"Yeah boss," Willie Crockett answers.

"Talk to me, Willie," Carlos tells him as he walks to the elevator.

"Followed him into the city, to the Embarcadero Lofts, as I told you," Crockett begins. "Sure enough, it was Councilman Adams."

"Interesting," Carlos replies.

"As you suspected, the Councilman came out to meet him," Crockett continues.

"Makes sense," Carlos agrees. "Surveillance in those buildings would have picked up Andrew visiting. That would be somewhat unfortunate to explain for our friend."

"Indeed," Crockett replies. "He got into the car with Klein and they went for a drive. Too bad we didn't have a little bug in that car."

'No matter," Carlos chuckles. "Andrew will tell me everything if you did as I asked."

"No problem there," Crockett tells him. "I made sure they saw me. Pulled up next to them at a stoplight. Showed them both my imaginary shooter. Man, you should have seen their faces, boss. I could see that a hundred times and not get enough."

This actually brings a genuine laugh from the San Francisco mobster. He can only imagine the dual faces in the car, and their reaction to what he knows was the menacing presence of one Willie Crockett.

"Then yes, Andrew will tell me everything I need to know," Carlos repeats. He grows silent as Kate Beckett and Dr. Argento catch up with him at the elevator. Waving at the women, he opts for the stairwell just down the hallway, waving goodbye to both women. Reaching the stairwell, he opens the door and heads down the steps before continuing.

"Sorry about that, my friend," he tells Crockett.

"Ears?" his friend asks.

"Ears," he concurs. "Anyway, you have done your job. Time for me to do mine."

"What do you want me to do next?" Crockett asks. "Follow Klein? Follow the Councilman?"

"No, go and get some rest, my friend," Carlos tells him. "I can follow Andrew at any time. I am more interested in Mr. Adams. But I need to make sure a friend of mine here is going to be all right."

"Not like you, boss," Crockett offers. "I mean, no disrespect, but I haven't seen you like this with anyone before."

"Kate Beckett is not just 'anyone', Willie," Carlos answers. "As such, I need to make sure she is all right. And that brings up another old friend as well."

"Her again?" Crockett laughs.

"Yes, her again," Carlos laughs with him.

"When are you going to just talk to her, boss?" Crockett asks. "I mean, we both know it wouldn't be this huge surprise to her. And she could help you in so many ways."

"You know I cannot ask her to be a part of this," Carlos disagrees. "We have had this conversation before, my friend."

"Yeah, you and _I_ have had this conversation," Crockett counters. "You and _her_? The two of you have never had this little chat . . . unless I have missed something."

"Point," Carlos acknowledges. There are only a few people on the planet who can talk so frankly with Sam Carlos, and Willie Crockett has earned that right.

Crockett is not even the least bit surprised that his boss has hung up. He simply smiles to himself, shaking his head as he turns his car west toward Van Ness. From there, he will take Columbus Avenue to his flat near the old Presidio Army Base.

Sam Carlos, however, continues down the steps, now dialing a familiar number. Glancing at his watch, he cannot hide the smile growing on his face.

"She will be less than amused," he says out loud, continuing down now toward the first floor.

It takes three rings before he gets his answer.

"Sam Carlos, I swear this had better be beyond good!" Detective Jennifer Blackard begins, her voice still groggy from sleep. "I know you know what time it is."

"I apologize, Jennifer, I promise this is important," Carlos begins, unable to stop smiling. "This is not a social call."

"Too bad," she yawns into the receiver. It takes him aback. Not much does.

"I . . . well," he stumbles. "Would you like it to be?"

"Try it sometime," she banters back with him. "What can I do for you, Sam?"

He considers the words of his friend driving himself home toward the Presidio, nodding his head. Once again, his right-hand man is correct. This is a door he should try to walk through someday.

But not today.

"I have a favor Jennifer," he concludes. "One that requires an early breakfast."

"Am I cooking this breakfast, or are you taking me out?" she laughs, now sitting upright in her bed. Teasing banter aside, she knows Sam Carlos will never take this step. It frightens her that she wouldn't mind if he did.

"I am afraid this one cannot have snooping ears," he tells her.

"Give me at least twenty minutes," she replies, now pulling herself out of bed. "I will get bacon and eggs started," she tells him.

"Thank you, Jennifer," he replies honestly. "And one day we will work on that 'taking you out' part."

"Promises, promises," she yawns again. "Just don't let my breakfast get cold," she tells him. Then it dawns on her.

"Wait a minute," she tells him. "You have never been to my house. How do you even know where . . ." She stops herself and starts to laugh.

"Never mind, Sam," she continues. "I will see you in a few."

.

 **A/N:** This chapter is a little shorter, but I need to set up the next phase of where we go with this. I have finished by most recent book on my cancer journey and sent for publishing, and how am devoting my writing time to finishing this story. I have missed this, and missed all of you.


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